Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. "Better than your company, Saint Giles," replied Sheppard; "so, shut the door, and make yourself scarce. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. “Gods!” cried Ann Veronica, and kept him standing. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid.
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