She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. The shouts drew nearer, and lights were seen flashing ruddily against the sides and gables of the neighbouring houses. Because of the thought of love and companionship? No. But that brought Mrs. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. Farewell. The only thing that was louder to her was the beating of his heart. She moaned as she touched him. “For seven years,” said Ann Veronica, “I have been trying to keep myself from thinking about love.
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