Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. Her neck was smeared with red and remorse flooded him. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. He had assumed that her leaving home was the point at issue, that everything turned on that, and that the sole alternative was obedience, and she had fallen in with that assumption until rebellion seemed a sacred principle. The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the next gust would precipitate them into the river. “You were going to answer it?” “Certainly not!” she said deliberately. He's down in Patagonia somewhere. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor. "On my return, I found the window open, and the room vacant. And yet—such is the buoyancy of youth—within a fortnight he began his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's account.
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