Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. ‘Madame, I trust I see you well?’ ‘Merci. ” He pulled up at the Beck’s doorstep at 1:48. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. The Bach Cantata was played fairly well, Sebastian thought, for a lot of children.
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