He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. "I call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. Leonardo was to me nothing at all. . ” “You what?” she repeated incredulously. Gladstone would have to a carelessly displayed interior on a dissecting-room table. She was unusually soft and gentle in her manner to him. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances. And my wife won’t live with me for reasons that I think most women would consider sound.
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