They trudged and talked, and Manning struggled, as he said, to “get the hang of it all. ” Ann Veronica read this letter through with grave, attentive eyes. Like the nuns, she hardly ever looked in a mirror. His attraction for her was now written plainly on his freckled face, revealed by the many drinks he had imbibed. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. “Thank you—for coming,” he said. “You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. ‘Desist, you little devil,’ he growled in her ear. Ann Veronica hazarded an opinion that as a matter of history some very beautiful people had, to a quite considerable extent, been bad, but Mr. “Well?” she said.
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