Anna sighed as she reflected that her sister had simply revelled in her indiscretions. He beamed a little as she disappeared into the orchestra room, a cacophony of tuning instruments. Somehow logic could not explain her. 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 had found the location of his firm on the internet on a library computer, tracing him to this place in New York where he practiced criminal law. “I’ll come to the station,” said Ann Veronica. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased. You go cheer him up. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. Sheppard.
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