Ann Veronica became violently excited at the sight. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. He turned, expecting to see his wife. Jack tried it, and found it locked. Brendon’s guests,” she said, “and I scarcely think it would be nice of me to leave him alone with Sydney. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him.
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