“We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. You see, aunt, it’s the only possible way for me to get a good degree in my subjects, and father won’t hear of it. ” She blushed deeply. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. “Odd little room,” said Ann Veronica, dimly apprehending that obtrusive sofa. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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