It was perfectly logical. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. He understood now that it was a part of her inheritance. “You had no right—” panted Ann Veronica. “Hola, Michelle. Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. She rose from her chair, and began walking up and down the room restlessly.
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