She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. The man, who was just able to move, pointed towards Giltspur-street. ” She threw away the end of her cigarette. Wood. He shook his head all the time. It must be the dawn creeping in.
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