The man’s hand flashed out, but immediately afterwards an oath and a cry of pain broke from his lips. There was nothing to be got out of the man. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. I was—I was a corespondent. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. They both listened intently.
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