The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. And at last Ann Veronica and Miss Miniver came down the dark staircase and out into the foggy spaces of the London squares, and crossed Russell Square, Woburn Square, Gordon Square, making an oblique route to Ann Veronica’s lodging. It was. Montressor’s guests. She HAD cried, Ann Veronica knew. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. Returning to Mrs Sindlesham’s chair, he held up the miniature so the face depicted there was turned towards the old lady. White, my landlady, believes his story. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched.
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