Now, I suppose, old Barfoot is talking to my mother.

That's an odd affair to be sure.

But I can't see Bonamy down there.

Damn London!") for the market carts were lumbering down the street.
"What about a walk on Saturday ?" ("What's happening on Saturday ?") Then, taking out his pocket-book, he assured himself that the night of the Durrants' party came next week.
But though all this may very well be true--so Jacob thought and spoke--so he crossed his legs--filled his pipe--sipped his whisky, and once looked at his pocket-book, rumpling his hair as he did so, there remains over something which can never be conveyed to a second person save by Jacob himself.

Moreover, part of this is not Jacob but Richard Bonamy--the room; the market carts; the hour; the very moment of history.