The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. You go cheer him up. How could she tell him what indeed already began to puzzle herself, why she had borrowed that money at all? The plain fact was that she had grabbed a bait. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. ‘Perhaps she don’t understand English,’ suggested Roding. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast.
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