She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. Ann Veronica passed from her aunt to her father, and put her arms about him and kissed his cheek. He could see lust virtually dripping from the dark-haired boy’s maw as she teased every last note from her shuddering violin, the devil in a black skirt. They are not your children, they never were. Besides, by the time they were off his hands, old McClintock would be dropping in to have his liver renovated. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. Sooner or later we’ll certainly do something to clean those prisons you told me about—limewash the underside of life.
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