You, sir,” he added, turning to Brendon, “had better take my card round to the police station in Werner Street and ask that Detective Dorling be sent round here at once on urgent business. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. He caught the smirk. He pressed his lips to her with a much greater force than she had anticipated. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance.
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