To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. “I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. He heard the woman talking again. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. What is it that you wish from me? You would like to arrest me for spying? Very well, arrest me.
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