A knot of three policemen in conflict with her staggered toward Ann Veronica’s attendants and distracted their attention. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. He pulled away. It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. "Tomorrow I shall have a visitor. She had a better voice than I, and the rest I suppose is only a trick. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. Anyhow, there it is: YOU ARE NOT GOING THERE. When he returned from pissing, he sat down with her. But how close? She glanced about at the shrouded furnishings for possible cover. Your pursuers are below. But there was no feeling of remorse; there was only the sensation of exaltation. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being.
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