You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. I've bumped into so much of the underside that I can't see clean any more. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. But for a long time, anyhow, we lovers have to be as if we were no more than friends. They had heard nothing, seen nothing.
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