Chapter XXIII MONTAGUE HILL SEES LIGHT AT LAST At exactly ten minutes past ten Annabel rang the bell of her sister’s flat. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. ‘Eh bien, you are not like Leonardo. "I don't know how it is," he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, "but I've a strange foreboding of ill. And it's uncanny. He was conscious of a quickening of his heartbeat and the familiar rise of adrenalin that sent his senses soaring in anticipation. “This means a plunge. Manning, all this sort of thing is very well as sentiment, but does it correspond with the realities? Are women truly such angelic things and men so chivalrous? You men have, I know, meant to make us Queens and Goddesses, but in practice—well, look, for example, at the stream of girls one meets going to work of a morning, round-shouldered, cheap, and underfed! They aren’t queens, and no one is treating them as queens. You don’t understand. Twice Spurlock went to Copeley's—twenty miles to the northwest—for ice and mail. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured.
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