It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. The next moment he was by her side. John said nothing. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. "I am not to be deceived. She surveyed accommodation that seemed at first merely austere, and became more and more manifestly inadequate as the moments fled by. Annabel, I cannot believe it.
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