‘You will have to prove it, you know,’ Gerald said quietly. 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. At last he could bear it no longer. It wasn’t. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. "Not dangerously, I hope," returned Thames; "but fly—save yourself. We shall have him on his return. ". It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven.
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