“The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. The Tigress went prowling for nut, too. “And me. The assemblage was for the most part, if not altogether, composed of persons to whom vice in all its aspects was too familiar to present much of novelty, in whatever form it was exhibited. I didn’t know. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. My reception at West Kensington you know of. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. As to Jack Sheppard, he appeared utterly reckless and insensible, and did nothing but whistle and sing the whole way. As it is, I'm not sorry for the blunder. .
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