Ann Veronica had come to the Imperial College obsessed by the great figure of Russell, by the part he had played in the Darwinian controversies, and by the resolute effect of the grim-lipped, yellow, leonine face beneath the mane of silvery hair. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. It plucked shingles from the school building, threatening to shake them all loose one by one like rotting teeth. E. “But your sister,” he said. There's the paragraph. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. Her spirit awoke in dismay to an affection in ruins, to the immense undignified disaster that had come to them.
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