When John’s parents weren’t home, they made love in his bedroom. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. “And how did you find us here?” “I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left.
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