From her place at the head of the Procession she could see the big red, white and blue standard held high above Dorothea and Lady Victoria Threlfall.  She knew how they would look; Lady Victoria, white and tense, would go like a saint and a martyr, in exaltation, hardly knowing where she was, or what she did; and Dorothea would go in pride, and in disdain for the proceedings in which her honour forced her to take part; she would have an awful knowledge of what she was doing and of where she was; she would drink every drop of the dreadful cup she had poured out for herself, hating it.

Last night Veronica had thought that she too would hate it; she thought that she would rather die than march in the Procession.  But she did not hate it or her part in it.  The thing was too beautiful and too big to hate, and her part in it was too little.

She was not afraid of the Procession or of the soul of the Procession.  She was not afraid of the thick crowd on the pavements, pressing closer and closer, pushed back continually by the police.  Her soul was by itself.  Like Dorothea’s soul it went apart from the soul of the crowd and the soul of the Procession; only it was not proud; it was simply happy.

The band had not yet begun to play; but already she heard the music sounding in her brain; her feet felt the rhythm of the march.

Somewhere on in front the policemen made gestures of release, and the whole Procession began to move.  It marched to an unheard music, to the rhythm that was in Veronica’s brain.

They went through what were once streets between walls of houses, and were now broad lanes between thick walls of people.  The visible aspect of things was slightly changed, slightly distorted.  The houses stood farther back behind the walls of people; they were hung with people; a swarm of people clung like bees to the house walls.

All these people were fixed where they stood or hung.  In a still and stationary world the Procession was the only thing that moved.

She had a vague, far-off perception that the crowd was friendly.

A mounted policeman rode at her side.  When they halted at the cross-streets he looked down at Veronica with an amused and benign expression.  She had a vague, far-off perception that the policeman was friendly.  Everything seemed to her vague and far off.

Only now and then it struck her as odd that a revolutionary Procession should be allowed to fill the streets of a great capital, and that a body of the same police that arrested the insurgents should go with it to protect them, to clear their triumphal way before them, holding up the entire traffic of great thoroughfares that their bands and their banners and their regiments should go through.  She said to herself “What a country!  It couldn’t happen in Germany; it couldn’t happen in France, or anywhere in Europe or America.  It could only happen in England.”

Now they were going up St. James’s Street towards Piccadilly.  The band was playing the Marseillaise.