“For seven years,” said Ann Veronica, “I have been trying to keep myself from thinking about love. ’ It took several frustrating moments, working at the protrusions of the carving down the side of the bookshelves, tugging at leaves, pushing at flowers. They came teeming distressfully through her aching brain: “A man can kick, his skirts don’t tear; A man scores always, everywhere. ” She drove off in a little fiacre, nodding and smiling at Sir John, who remained upon the Avenue. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin.
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