Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Her confession was still unmade. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. Ann Veronica was not ready enough to deal with that counter-stroke. I'll tell you something. “You may call anytime. I wish to prevent a repetition of any such errand as I presume you have come here upon this evening. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London. Where even to be a Catholic, they say, is to be looked upon with scorn and disgust.
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