Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. "And now to see the end of it," said Jonathan, shortly afterwards passing through the window. Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. Manning called. She found herself in a phase of violent reaction against the suffrage movement, a phase greatly promoted by one of those unreasonable objections people of Ann Veronica’s temperament take at times—to the girl in the next cell to her own.
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