‘Didn’t mean it, love. She kicked both of her legs with the force of a bull, sending a blow into Rhea’s borrowed legs. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote.
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