She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. “Fighting goes with loads of its own baggage, John. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. Brutes! They are the brute still with us! Science some day may teach us a way to do without them. Brendon dismissed the subject with a wave of the hand.
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