Mrs. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. “You were there, were you?” He laughed a little impatiently. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. “What the hell is going on here, Officer?” He grumbled. But it is all very different. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. “You must arrest me!” she gasped, breathlessly, insisting insanely on a point already carried; “you shall!” The police-station at the end seemed to Ann Veronica like a refuge from unnamable disgraces. "And now, Sir," he said, preparing to take his departure, "will you add to the obligation already conferred by informing me where I can meet with Mr. “Leave them!” He yelled. “I did it for love of you,” he said.
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