” She drove off in a little fiacre, nodding and smiling at Sir John, who remained upon the Avenue. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. ” “I don’t care. Then he hovered undecidedly for some seconds with his hands in his pockets and his mouth puckered to a whistle before he turned to go home by the Avenue. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. “Oh my God! You sounded like my Grandma just now! How did you do that?” He asked, shocked. She heard her husband’s heavy tread descending the stairs, and the wheels of his carriage as he drove off.
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