Enough. Our watcher extinguishes, if she was smoking, her cigarette, and checks her watch, if she’s wearing one. Then stands and retraces her steps: along the bricked walkway, over the pedestrian bridge, down the staircase at Barbican Station, and on to Aldersgate. It is threatening rain again, which it always seems to do on this corner. And she has no umbrella. Never mind. If she walks fast enough, she can reach her destination without getting wet. If another one ever turns up, she might even step on to a bus.
— Slow Horses (Mick Herron), Loc. 5813–7
A fucking word salad! Is it not? Well, on the other hand, that’s a piece of fiction, so it’s the word salad in its entirety. Right? Nevermind.