My uterus and my ovaries are gone. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. It would be useless to tell her to go back, even heartless; and yet he could not advise her to go on, blindly, not knowing whether her aunt was dead or alive. The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica. “I can tell you are thinking about it.
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