Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. " "How so?" inquired Winifred. Sure, I lose one occasionally—if he stays in New York. He walked with bent head. I am tired, and I want to be alone. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation.
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