She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. She smiled encouragingly, laying aside her plate and turning her chair from the table. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. “That’s exhilarating,” said Ann Veronica. ” “I don’t think it makes a rap of difference, except for one thing.
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