Part 2 Ann Veronica Stanley was twenty-one and a half years old. They watched the chimpanzees in the new apes’ house, and admired the gentle humanity of their eyes—“so much more human than human beings”—and they watched the Agile Gibbon in the next apartment doing wonderful leaps and aerial somersaults. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. Earles that I was ‘Alcide,’” Anna remarked quietly. "Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed.
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