[MaC] "Now we know..."

[Dorothea Salo]

> "It's too late Pamela," Michael said. "Let's go back inside. Please?"
> The UXB were still working that bomb and there was no way that Michael
> could deal with any more death tonight. He was embarressed, but put on
> the military man's face of disinterest. He took her arm, gently but
> firmly and began to lead her back toward the flats.
> 
> "There's something I need to talk to your mother about, and maybe you
> should be there."

	Pamela went with him without resistance, shivering in her silk gown and 
wholly inadequate (if jaunty) fur-trimmed jacket. As they reached the 
bottom of the stairs she whispered "God rest him," thinking that for all 
her honest concern the soldiers and the Group-Commander had been kinder 
to Philip Powell than she.

	"I wish you *would* speak to Mum, sir," she said when she could manage 
it. "She's had a wretched night, and a word from you would be a great 
comfort, I'm sure." She reached a landing and paused to breathe a 
moment. "I've my work to tend to, sir, unless it's *very* important. I'm 
sure you won't say anything at all unsuitable." Plebeian words, plainly 
spoken; but her cold hand found his on her arm and held it a moment, not 
at all unkindly.