He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. That’s why it’s so important I should take my own line now. "Where are you going?" cried Thames, who, though wholly disencumbered, was scarcely able to keep up with him. Then she stood up and looked around the room. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. 155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor.
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