She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. Her mind turned and accused itself of having been cold and hard. She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. She thought of Sebastian who often returned from the charnel house that the outside world had become. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. ‘Never mind where. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette. “That doesn’t touch the question I asked you,” she said.
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