You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. Paul’s, were rich and wonderful with the soft sunshine of London, the softest, the finest grained, the most penetrating and least emphatic sunshine in the world. ’ The sharp eyes twinkled. When she occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with creepers—the garden trim and exquisitely kept. She had called the police on them anonymously.
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