238 < 30 > IN BED John drove her home after school nearly every day. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter quite another. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. You saw him? You have been to Remenham House?’ ‘Remenham House? I wish I’d been only to Remenham House.
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