Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. Ann Veronica’s tense nerves started, and she stood still with her eyes upon him, wondering what it might be that impended. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity.
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