Her thoughts were busy with the possibilities of this break in her journey. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again. Enter the house with your men. And from then on we'll see them, port and starboard, to the end of the voyage. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. ‘You do not say, “I am a gentleman born. Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of determined women at war with the universe. ’ But Major Alderley might have been an expert for all the sound he made as he forced the lock with the heavy blade. “A very clear statement, madam,” he said.
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