How shall we go home ?' 'We had better take a cab to Victoria.

No knowing how long we may have to wait for a train when we get there.' 'Now don't be so grumpy.

Where have you been all the time ?' 'Oh, walking about.

What else was I to do ?' On the drive they held no conversation.

At Victoria they were delayed about half an hour before a train started for Herne Hill; Monica sat in a waiting-room, and her husband trudged about the platform, still clumping rhythmically with his stick.
Their Sunday custom was to dine at one o'clock, and at six to have tea.
Widdowson hated the slightest interference with domestic routine, and he had reluctantly indulged Monica's desire to go to Chelsea this afternoon.