” He reeled out of the room. He backed away from her. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. ’ He moved to his friend and grasped his hand in a gesture as deliberately dramatic as the storytelling of mademoiselle. I’m sorry Lucy. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. ” “YOU know,” said Ann Veronica.
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