” 209 Clotilde was no fool. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. Her grave fine face, her warm clear complexion, had already aroused his curiosity as he had gone to and fro in Morningside Park, and here suddenly he was near to her and talking freely and intimately. “It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. For every Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a wolf. She felt that she was not alone. An unwelcome idea came to him.
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