As he looked around, he beheld an incessant stream of passengers hurrying on below. But over against the world Miss Miniver assembled a small but energetic minority, the Children of Light—people she described as “being in the van,” or “altogether in the van,” about whom Ann Veronica’s mind was disposed to be more sceptical. There it was—to be borrowed. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh.
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