“The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. Amongst others, the watchman whose box was placed against the churchyard wall, near the entrance to Shoe-lane, rushed out and sprung his rattle, which was immediately answered by another rattle from Holborn-bars. ‘Home?’ ‘To your family. The young lady in the bureau said she would inquire, and Ann Veronica, while she affected to read the appeal on a hospital collecting-box upon the bureau counter, had a disagreeable sense of being surveyed from behind by a small, whiskered gentleman in a frock-coat, who came out of the inner office and into the hall among a number of equally observant green porters to look at her and her bags. Of course. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice.
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