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The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. It’s all very fine and all that, Vee, this freedom, but it isn’t going to work. ’ ‘Mercy me,’ gasped the nun. What's all this about, anyhow? You.
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