Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. She looked stealthily at Anna. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. Anna sat with the face of a Sphinx— waiting. They travelled past the few idle sightseers who had braved the uninviting evening to see what the Suffragettes might be doing; they pulled up unchallenged within thirty yards of those coveted portals. Anna admitted the fact.
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