"It's when they're _separate_," Charlotte said. "I think Mrs. Rankin
_does_ things. And there's McClane swearing he'll get us out of Belgium.
But he won't!"

She didn't care. She had got used to it as she had got used to the
messroom and its furnishings, the basket chairs and backless benches, the
two long tables covered with white marbled American leather, the
photographs of the King and Queen of the Belgians above the chimney
piece. The atmosphere of hostility was thick and penetrating, something
that you breathed in with the smells of ether and iodine and
disinfectant, that hung about the grey, leeking corridors and floated in
the blond light of the room. She could feel a secret threat in it, as if
at any minute it might work up to some pitch still more malignant, some
supreme disaster. There were moments when she wondered whether McClane
had prejudiced the authorities against them. At first she had regarded
the little man as negligible; it was the women who had fascinated her, as
if they had or might come to have for her some profound importance and
significance. She didn't like McClane. He straddled too much. But you
couldn't go on ignoring him. His dreamy, innocent full face with its
arching eyes was a mask, the mask of dangerous, inimical intentions; his
profile was rough cut, brutal, energetic, you guessed the upper lip thin
and hard under the hanging moustache; the lower one stuck out like a
sucker. That was his real face. It showed an adhesive, exhausting will
that squeezed and sucked till it had got what it wanted out of people. He
could work things. So could Mrs. Rankin. She had dined with the Colonel.

Charlotte didn't care. She _liked_ that beastliness, that hostility of
theirs. It was something you could put your back against; it braced her
to defiance. It brought her closer to John, to John and Gwinnie, and