95 The officer showed her into the sleepy suburban police station, a hub of inactivity on Sunday night except for herself and a slightly drunk woman who had been brought in for DUI. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head. This was an imitation of the noises made by the carnivora at the Zoological Gardens at feeding-time; the idea was taken up by prisoner after prisoner until the whole place was alive with barkings, yappings, roarings, pelican chatterings, and feline yowlings, interspersed with shrieks of hysterical laughter. “You see,” said Ann Veronica, staring before her at the window-sash, “that’s the form my question takes at the present time. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. He bullied frankly. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. ” Ann Veronica did.
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