Yes, he would walk to Lavender Hill, and ramble about that region until Monica had had reasonable time for talk with her sister.
About three o'clock there fell a heavy shower of rain.

Strangely against his habits, Widdowson turned into a quiet public-house, and sat for a quarter of an hour at the bar, drinking a glass of whisky.

During the past week he had taken considerably more wine than usual at meals; he seemed to need the support.

Whilst sipping at his glass of spirits, he oddly enough fell into talk with the barmaid, a young woman of some charms, and what appeared to be unaffected modesty.

Not for twenty years had Widdowson conversed with a member of this sisterhood.