For a second time Ann Veronica wanted to swear at the universe. He had been gone entirely one day, for yesterday afternoon he had departed from Remenham House, and she had waited with patience like a saint, and now it was again the afternoon. Her eyes were perhaps a little brighter than usual, the firelight played about her hair, there seemed to him to be a sudden softening of the straight firm mouth. For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. But here it is China. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. 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. Several men and women were piled there like wood, dead, horribly gored. Her elbows were ready. Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised.
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