The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. “To the best of my belief,” she said, with quiet dignity, “I have never seen either of you before in my life. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge.
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