After all, where prayer fails, a pistol is bound to succeed. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. She would compose extremely lucid and honorable explanations. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left.
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