His voice when he spoke was almost fiercely assertive, but there was an undernote of nervousness. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. Every moment or two he bent over his patient. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. Ann Veronica’s universe, which had never been altogether so respectful to her as she could have wished, gave a shout and whirled head over heels. He remained talking with her however.
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