He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. It hit her just above the knee. There were perches inside where she could crouch and labyrinths underneath where she could hide. ’ Miss Froxfield regarded him in some interest. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. ‘Dear me. Later. She is, in her way, a dear.
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