” Ann Veronica was stung to helpless anger. If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him. Don’t look so frightened. He felt her relaxation and let go of her wrists. ” Anna’s demeanour was still imperturbable, her marble pallor untinged by the slightest flush of colour. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers.
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