It's
all right; the novel will be done soon.'
And that night he worked until twelve o'clock, doggedly,
fiercely.
The next day was Sunday. As a rule he made it a day of rest, and
almost perforce, for the depressing influence of Sunday in London
made work too difficult. Then, it was the day on which he either
went to see his own particular friends or was visited by them.
'Do you expect anyone this evening?' Amy inquired.
'Biffen will look in, I dare say. Perhaps Milvain.'
'I think I shall take Willie to mother's. I shall be back before
eight.'
'Amy, don't say anything about the books.'
'No, no.'
'I suppose they always ask you when we think of removing over the
way?'
He pointed in a direction that suggested Marylebone Workhouse.
Amy tried to laugh, but a woman with a child in her arms has no
keen relish for such jokes.
'I don't talk to them about our affairs,' she said.
'That's best.'
She left home about three o'clock, the servant going with her to
carry the child.
At five a familiar knock sounded through the flat; it was a heavy
rap followed by half-a-dozen light ones, like a reverberating
echo, the last stroke scarcely audible.
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