Part 2 Ann Veronica Stanley was twenty-one and a half years old. She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. And catching hold of Thames, he quitted the deck. So far, however, was this submission from producing the desired effect, that it seemed only to lend additional fuel to her displeasure. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment.
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