John eased off. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. From first to last, on this occasion, her aunt expostulated for about two hours. There was something about their greeting and the tone of Annabel’s exclamation which puzzled her. Ann Veronica, with a sigh at the cost of hospitality, made a hasty negotiation for an extra tea and for a fire in the groundfloor apartment, and preened herself carefully for the interview. “It is your sister and her husband,” he said. She glared at him with satisfaction. But this only incensed the assailing party the more. A mate? A brother-lover to tromp about the world with? “I cannot. ” She closed her mouth. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo.
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