Gold-handled, too. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. “Grail!” said Ann Veronica, and then: “Oh, yes—of course! Anything but a holy one, I’m afraid. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. ‘I’m only surprised you have not released yourself. It’s awkward, but we’ll get round it somehow. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’.
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