Of the vast mass of these impressions Ann Veronica could make nothing at the time; there they were—Fact! She stored them away in a mind naturally retentive, as a squirrel stores away nuts, for further digestion. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. It was not the type of household where one could come and go at all hours, for this she was glad. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. The dance itself was anticlimactic, with teenagers trying their best to look the part of adult sophisticates on the dance floor. ‘Because I’m a female,’ declared Lucilla unanswerably. ‘You would know more of me?’ ‘I would know everything about you,’ Gerald told her, his tone at once provocative and inviting.
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