Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. At least for one moment, it was. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. Bête, she told herself fiercely. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield. ‘I left a message at home that he should do so as soon as he returned from Kent. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel.
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