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Her voice shook, her eyes were very soft and melting. She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. It wasn’t pretty. She assumed with a kind of mesmeric force all the propositions that Ann Veronica wanted her to define. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness.
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