Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. ‘But I was not there. “You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. . Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly.
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