With another spring he turned on the paralysed Gwenny, caught her up like a doll and charged with her now screaming violently against the shut solid oak front door.

A flash of instinct suggested a latchkey.

Holding the girl anyhow, he fumbled in his pocket.
It was an August London evening.

The Square was deserted; but at Gwenny's shrieks, neighbouring windows were thrown up and eager heads appeared.

It was very funny.