***** The general office was an extension of the west wing of the McClintock bungalow. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. “Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. I should have known at a glance if it was. She was listed for the raid—she was informed it was to be a raid upon the House of Commons, though no particulars were given her—and told to go alone to 14, Dexter Street, Westminster, and not to ask any policeman to direct her. “She can’t. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. She is, in her way, a dear.
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