I jumped then—I was not even shaken. "Relating to the father of the boy—Thames Darrell," supplied Jonathan. I don't have a phone in my room. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. A few minutes later she left the house on foot, and taking a hansom at the corner of the Square, drove to Anna’s flat.
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