Whatever anticipation Ann Veronica had formed of this vanished in the reality. Everybody, he felt, must be listening behind their papers. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. Lucy stared at the girl for a long ten seconds, and then looked away.
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