‘Obsessed, that’s what you are. Her parents have more money than God. “That’s HIM,” said Ann Veronica, in sound, idiomatic English. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. “Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. “Further than that, I am amazed that you should dare to allude to those few moments, to that single moment of folly. B. Old saltwater was right. His condition is not unfavourable, but there may be a relapse at any moment. Ann Veronica loved beautiful things, and the beauty of undraped loveliness not least among them; but these were pictures that did but insist coarsely upon the roundness of women’s bodies.
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