“I want a vote for myself,” she said. Ann Veronica, with a sigh at the cost of hospitality, made a hasty negotiation for an extra tea and for a fire in the groundfloor apartment, and preened herself carefully for the interview. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. From the sounds of it, he was better off dead. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her.
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