I cannot work, I cannot teach. Chapter XX ANNA’S SURRENDER “This is indeed a gala night,” said Ennison, raising his glass, and watching for a moment the golden bubbles. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. It fell with a clatter to the floor. She fought the inclination for a while, then surrendered.
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