"Let him remain," interposed Trenchard. Wanted a clean sweep for elbowroom. ” “Why?” she asked. The telegram reminded Ann Veronica that she had no place for interviews except her bed-sitting-room, and she sought her landlady and negotiated hastily for the use of the ground floor parlor, which very fortunately was vacant. 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. She looked at him gravely and squinted. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. Ann Veronica decided that “hoydenish ragger” was the only phrase to express her. A short flight of steps brought him to a dark passage, into which he plunged. Lucy complied, slipping the tight jeans over her white underwear. There was an eerie sense of brooding menace about an uninhabited establishment.
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