It is not for myself I fear. She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Anna, my love, you cannot have forgotten so soon. I wanted the time with you.
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