A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. ‘But a spy I am not. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. “Come this way,” he said. Now, you know where he is bound. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets.
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