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Just as he enters the dining-room he turns his head. "Gertrude, do you know an odd little cottage on the side of what used to be Savin Rock?" "A sort of chapel-looking place, with pointed roof?" "Yes. Who lives there?" "Why, Mr. St. Vincent." "The partner, do you mean?" "Yes." "Did you ever see him? What kind of looking person is he?" "Yes. He was here several times. He had the patent, you know.
This strange, squat old building, under the shadow of the church, is the market, its hundred columns and chapel-looking fronts always knee-deep and more in baskets and fruits and vegetables, while its air still seems to breathe of old books, old painters, and old authors.
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