So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning. Ann Veronica’s universe, which had never been altogether so respectful to her as she could have wished, gave a shout and whirled head over heels. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. . . “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. ” “In the Middle Ages, from what you’re telling me. Tol-de-rol!" As Jack concluded his ditty, the door flew open with a crash, and Thames sprang through the aperture. They walked past his old jungle gym set to a hilly park that dwelled sleepily beyond his house. When I heard about Larry I was going 159 to call you, I was, but, well, there is no excuse, is there? I acted like I was afraid of you, afraid that I liked you, so I ignored you like a coward. She still could not muster the strength to leave. The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica. “I shall be waiting for you there, and in the meantime, if you will help yourself—pray don’t look like that. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react.
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