“Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back. She tried to keep her side up by declaring that he had put her into an impossible position, and he replied by shouting, “Nonsense! Nonsense! Any father in my place would have done what I did. An ordinary type, of course—” Mrs. I don’t want to stop your singing. How are you?” “I’m fine,” she said, unaware of all events except for the voice on the other line. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed.
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