He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. “Friendships that are all very well between school-girls don’t always go on into later life. It was her past now, not Annabel’s.
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