They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. He was a wonderful little creature with a perfect tiny face, mottled pink cheeks, and eyes brighter than May. But the current rumblings of internal discontent across the Channel were productive of unease in certain quarters.
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