Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship. “You are developing far too retentive a memory for praises,” said Ann Veronica. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear.
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