The hurricane had now reached its climax. For a few moments Mr. He dressed rather after the fashion of the West End than the City, and affected a cultured urbanity that somehow disconcerted and always annoyed Ann Veronica’s father extremely. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue. But it was now too late to turn back, and, nerving himself for the shock he expected to encounter, he ventured after his conductor. "Your faults were the faults of circumstances.
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