The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. ‘On the contrary,’ Gerald argued, frowning. “I don’t see quite what your game is, Vee, but I suppose you’ve got a game on somewhere. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. Her eye met Miss Stanley’s understandingly, and she was if anything a trifle more affectionate in her greeting to Ann Veronica. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress.
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