” She interrupted as Ann Veronica was about to speak again, with a bright contagious hopefulness. Not fit to be dust on your boots. Then she uttered a strangled, ‘Espéce de bête!’ and burst into tears. Briefly explained, she was as the child who discards the rag baby for the living one. ‘She is constantly thinking of you,’ I said. I don’t know. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. “We were bound to do this when you kissed me,” she sobbed through her tears. “Never mind me. Pull yourself together now. Are you sure what it is you want of me?” “I want you. She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly.
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