Ann Veronica said nothing. She was fatigued physically and mentally, and neither mind nor body could rest. It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. ’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. “I wrote it for you. I'm no mollycoddle. “She has one, that’s why. You tried bravely enough to hide your preference, to look at us all with the same eyes, to speak to us in the same tone. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. “I always get off here and lean over that rail for a bit. "Do you still refuse to make one!" "I have made one," replied Lady Trafford. One gets drawn into things. .
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