We just want to ask her a few questions about an old murder case. She HAD cried, Ann Veronica knew. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. Wood had retired to his own room, where he had just summoned Thames. I felt—I felt living in a masked world. And afterwards! Sir John drew his cigar from his lips, and looked upwards where the white-lights flashed strangely amongst the deep cool green of the lime-trees. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. I’ll be ready in a moment.
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