The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. It wasn’t. And at last Ann Veronica and Miss Miniver came down the dark staircase and out into the foggy spaces of the London squares, and crossed Russell Square, Woburn Square, Gordon Square, making an oblique route to Ann Veronica’s lodging. Not Trodger. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. "Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. Ruth's eyes were wet, but she saw light everywhere: the room was filled with celestial aura.
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