He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. ‘Looks like it. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. “My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that.
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