” And to that, through vast rhetorical meanderings, she clung. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. "I'm not going to get rid of you just yet. There was nothing in the pockets of the coat. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. He had no ideas about daughters. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. He had taken it back. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Let me engage myself. It’s no good flying out at that, Vee; I didn’t arrange it.
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