Every now and then her general presence became radiantly dazzling in his eyes; she would appear in the street coming toward him, a surprise, so fine and smiling and welcoming was she, so expanded and illuminated and living, in contrast with his mere expectation. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. ‘What do you say of these troops?’ ‘You see, we’re militia. You wish another name? Eh bien. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. John knew everybody, it seemed. ‘Not where we’re going. ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech.
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