I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. “Too bad to keep you waiting,” Annabel exclaimed. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. On this side of the canal she has no place to go. “I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you.
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