His eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a fox. We both understood that. Anna raised her eyes. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. “Not a bit of it,” he said; “it’s only a score in a game. She's not for pleasure, but for work.
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