Explore "The Tunnel" by Dorothy M. Richardson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The short figure looked taller in the cassock, funny and hounded, like all curates; pounding about and arranging a place for her and trying to collect his thoughts while he repeated how good it was of her to have come. He sat down at last to the poached eggs and tea laid on one end of the small book-crowded table.
"I have a service at four-thirty," he said busily eating and glaring in front of him with unseeing eyes, a little like Mr. Grove only less desperate because his dark head was round and his eyes were blue -- "so you must excuse my meal. I have a volume of Plato here."