Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. She reeled in excitement, she unzipped his pants while kissing him, trying not to let herself stop touching him as she unclothed him. It is the worst of talk under such social circumstances that it is always getting cut off so soon as it is beginning; and I went home that afternoon feeling I had said nothing—literally nothing—of the things I had meant to say to you and that were coursing through my head. And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. One realized indeed then where the differences lay; the tender curves about Anna’s mouth transformed into hard sharp lines in Annabel’s, the eyes of one, truthful and frank, the other’s more beautiful but with less expression—windows lit with dazzling light, but through which one saw—nothing. White became conscious of a distinct sense of uneasiness, and showed it in her face. She could no longer wait.
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