A sinister thought edged in. Manning told her he loved beauty, and extorted a similar admission from her; he then expatiated upon his own love of beauty. “You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. She found herself in a phase of violent reaction against the suffrage movement, a phase greatly promoted by one of those unreasonable objections people of Ann Veronica’s temperament take at times—to the girl in the next cell to her own. Leaving the panel wide, Melusine dashed to the library door and flung it open, racing into the hall. She still had her letter of credit.
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