” “Bit starchy,” said Ann Veronica, and altered the key abruptly. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. ‘If you had met her, you’d understand. Still, her face never betrayed this distraction.
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