“I do,” Anna answered. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. She addressed Anna with a beaming smile and a very creditable mixture of condescension and officiousness. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. And he would express various artistic sensibilities and aesthetic appreciations in carefully punctuated sentences and a large, clear voice. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who was enjoying himself.
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