” “There’s art,” said Ann Veronica, “and writing. We just hit against each other, and here we are flying off at a tangent, a little surprised at what we are doing, all our principles abandoned, and tremendously and quite unreasonably proud of ourselves. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. Nice position. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. You do not need me to remind you of your success at Paris. To-morrow I am going to Paris.
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