I will not be persecuted in this way by you. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. Much to my amazement, as soon as I was in her presence I forgot about my magic and thought only of love. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel.
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