“I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory. ‘The place was full of barbers and military men. McClintock's was a plantation of ten thousand palms, yielding him annually about half a million nuts. But she made a pretence of struggling a little, for it would be out of character for her not to do so and she did not want to arouse his suspicions. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. ’ ‘What sort of “down on your luck”?’ asked Alderley.
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