She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. More than ever Sir John was glad that he had sat down. I suppose I believe in God. But I don't understand her; she's over my head. “Then we must try and make London endurable for you,” he remarked cheerfully. “Oh, Ann Veronica!” he cried, “I cannot let you go like this! You don’t understand. We are very poor, but manage to squeeze a little happiness out of each day. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. You must say farewell to her, for I cannot. But I do hope, Vee, I do hope—this is the end of these adventures.
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