So presently they got into a hansom together, and Ann Veronica sat back feeling very luxurious and pleasant, and looked at the light and stir and misty glitter of the street traffic from under slightly drooping eyelids, while Ramage sat closer to her than he need have done, and glanced ever and again at her face, and made to speak and said nothing. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. “My dear Anna,” he answered. Playing became a way of escape. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. "Answer me one question first?" he said; "I half suspect you're Jack Sheppard.
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