‘I must see the lady who is my great-aunt. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. It isn’t what I have been but what I am. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. Sheppard, smiling through her tears. A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. Larry Beck did his best to the flares of her temper from rising. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends.
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