“But if you weren’t keen on the suffrage business, why on earth did you go to prison?” Ann Veronica reflected. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. He had reacted by pushing her away, disgust and frustration on his face. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments.
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