She knew it. The curtain rose out of the concluding bars of the overture and revealed Isolde on the prow of the barbaric ship. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. “I mean REALLY independent. Things happen out this way. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing.
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