In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. "Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. A shudder rippled across his shoulders. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive.
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