“No you don’t!” said Ann Veronica, and walked out at a brisk and businesslike pace toward the house. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. It consisted, like pre-Roman Gaul, of three parts. The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style.
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