She had never been so happy to vomit. Too busy. She was still fully dressed; so all she had to do was to pause before the mirror and give her hair a few pats. My poor son despairs of me, for I have primed every member of the family to bring me the latest novels whenever they choose to visit. How dreary it all looks. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning.
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