“Have you ever been to the opera, Ann Veronica?” said Ramage. The fireplace was at the other end, with the sheeted shapes of two sofas either side. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. She nodded. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London. Here and there, a building might be seen with the doors and windows driven in, and all access to it prevented by the heaps of bricks and tilesherds. I have it about me.
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