And now Ann Veronica’s evenings were also becoming very busy. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. Sheppard. “I don’t think you can have heard me, Vee,” he said, with intensely controlled fury. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. “I am much obliged to you,” he said. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. I am not French in the least. And he had destroyed all this. “He writes very well,” said Ann Veronica. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence.
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