Michelle bypassed the ordering counter and surfed directly to their table. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Sections and pages had been pasted together, and all through both Testaments a word had been blotted out. Ruth, having decided a course for herself—that of renunciation—and having the strength to keep it, met these advances in precisely the mood they were offered. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here.
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