"And, now,—to Newgate. It isn’t. The chair is in the veranda. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street. So this was what it was all about. She knew the story only imperfectly, and followed it now with a passionate and deepening interest. She felt that she became more familiar with the floor during the time that he stayed than with any particular person. It feels like I’ve got a snake of mucus stuffing my entire throat, just one big solid rope. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish. ‘Still more would I be so if he had come himself to tell me this.
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