Have you anything to ask me?” Ann Veronica readjusted her mind hastily. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. She could not part with dignity. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. No, don’t let me call myself that. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. How the devil did you break a picture?’ ‘Don’t be obtuse, Hilary.
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