Here they were regaled with another plentiful meal by the hospitable carpenter, who personally superintended the repast. She became aware of his presence as she had never been aware of any human being in her life before. He looked distant, irritated. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Unless—would he hide from them as he had hidden from her? It was a big house, he said. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. It was neither good nor bad. She won’t be a problem from now on. But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. Miss Stanley, it was manifest, had given him Ann Veronica’s address.
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