It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. The baby crawled towards them, seeking their blood. He was mad. It’s for you to say if I may sit on it.
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