He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. Hastily, he reached for the door. But her heart kept on sinking. ‘Jacques?’ ‘No. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. His face was that of a quick, intelligent-looking boy, with fine hazel eyes, and a clear olive complexion. ‘I do not understand you. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window.
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