Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. The other lay unconscious in a heap. He kissed her ardently. They had turned into the street, on the opposite side of which were the flats where Anna lived. “I want some advice,” said Ann Veronica.
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