Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. ‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. Everything. Ramage leaned over the gate at Ann Veronica’s side, and for a moment there was silence. “I am going,” he said, “to be impertinent. Advancing towards him, he made him a formal salutation, which was coldly returned.
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