A bowl of roses, just brought by Ann Veronica, adorned the communal dressing-table, and Ann Veronica was particularly trim in preparation for a call she was to make with her aunt later in the afternoon. Anna saw it, and for the first time found herself trembling. They travelled past the few idle sightseers who had braved the uninviting evening to see what the Suffragettes might be doing; they pulled up unchallenged within thirty yards of those coveted portals. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical.
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