He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. Like stealing. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. "Why not?" "I'll tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers.
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