Chapter SevenThat same day, Ruth huddled over a Smith-Corona in the press room of the Broadcasting House, glad the BBC had made space for the foreign-print journalists who flooded the city. She raised her eyes from the blank sheet in the machine. Men of all shapes and sizes, cigarettes or cigars clenched in their teeth, pounded away on typewriters.
In the far corner, a flame-haired woman sat scribbling on a notepad. She periodically chewed on the end of the pencil and stared into the distance then commenced writing again.
Ruth inspected the woman’s attire. She wore black trousers and thick-soled black oxfords. An oversized man’s white dress shirt enveloped her petite frame, and a multicolored silk scarf hung around her neck. A black beret perched on her head. She looked up and grinned at
