"Your faults were the faults of circumstances. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. . She loved for him to regale her with the stories of his past, the days of ancient Greece. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. 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. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it.
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