She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. . Gianfrancesco’s had curved differently and was darker. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills.
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