“Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. “You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. “It’s a way of avoiding explanations. Petite build, like herself. Who is it?” The man came a little further into the room. I'll think no more about her. . I don’t think we’re altogether to blame if we don’t take some of your lot seriously.
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