It was Annabel’s. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. She was extremely showily dressed, and her large hooped petticoat gave additional effect to her lofty stature. Life is so good. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. “What a hideous repertoire! If you are in earnest about wanting to earn money, why on earth don’t you accept an engagement here?” “An engagement?” she queried. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash.
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