It was the grand nursery of vice. The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. She cursed herself for a fool. Creeping stealthily up stairs, unmasking a dark lantern, and glancing into each room as he passed, he was startled in one of them by the appearance of Mrs. Jonathan Wild. Both arm-chairs had been moved a little so as to face each other on either side of the fender, and in the circular glow of the green-shaded lamp there lay, conspicuously waiting, a thick bundle of blue and white papers tied with pink tape. Tight. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. “I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said.
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