Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. “You delicate female!” “Who cares,” said Ann Veronica, “seeing it’s you? Warm, soft little wonders! Of course I want them. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. "What is this?" she wanted to know. "Mr. Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,—as well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter's daughter. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience.
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