Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. Sir John once more looked around him. ’ ‘When you begin to tell the truth,’ Gerald told her severely, ‘I shall be happy to believe you. There are cigarettes and magazines in the corner there. She is no longer mine; she is yours. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. “I suppose a girl MUST be underpaid and sweated,” said Ann Veronica. But one was clearly the goddess among them, her face hidden, her body seeming to call out to me to possess it at once. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. .
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