The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. He blushed furiously; it was not what he had expected to hear. Once a week, every Saturday, they had a little gathering from nine till the small hours, just talk and perhaps reading aloud and fruitarian refreshments—chestnut sandwiches buttered with nut tose, and so forth—and lemonade and unfermented wine; and to one of these symposia Miss Miniver after a good deal of preliminary solicitude, conducted Ann Veronica. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton.
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