“What?” He replied. “I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. Kneebone nodded. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes.
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