"Don't preach," said the barrister, "it makes me sick."
The curate looked up with a vacant stare at the towering heights of the Abbey. From far away came the rumble of the organ, for this was the time for the early Celebration. By the calendar it was Monday, the Twelfth Day of the Terror.
"I think I could have hoped," the parson wiped a tear away with his torn sleeve, "only there's always such a crowd at the Government food shops. The men trample the women and children to death, and that takes away one's appetite."
"Yes, we're savages now," said the barrister, "we've shed our infernal skin of gentility."
He looked away towards the street arab. The lad was rejoicing on the verge of success, but rejoiced too early, for the pigeon flew clear of the snare. Then the lad cursed.
"I watched all night," said the curate, "by the Palace. Our poor little Queen works hard."
The other was cynical. "Does she?"
"D'you know," said the other, "that Ulster is dead?"
"No such luck."
"But it's true. A woman stabbed him. Really."