CHAPTER TWELVE
Holding the Baby
“A
nd
he never stopped once to beg pardon,” said Mr Campion, as he swung the sports car neatly into the big yard at the back of the Huguenot’s Arms at Witham and brought it to a stop within a yard of the pump.
Penny hastily dabbed away her tears. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Poetry,” said Mr Campion. “The highest within me. Soul juice, in fact. It’s the last line of the Neo-Georgian sonnet I was declaiming to you when the rude gentleman with the acquisitive instinct stopped us. Don’t you remember—about the civic person in the garden? I’d better recite the whole thing to you.”
Penny put out her hand appealingly. “Don’t,” she said. “It’s awfully good of you to try to cheer me up, but you can’t realize, as a stranger, what this means. That su
