“Time for my Patience,” she said. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. She had no place she loved. She seized the key, and he grasped her hand and squeezed it roughly and painfully between the handle and the ward as she tried to turn it. She was quite oblivious to the sensation she had created.
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