Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. That was the true miracle of the gift; without actual experience, to imagine love and hate and greed and how they would react upon each other; and then, when these passions had served their temporary purpose, to cast them aside for new imaginings. Anna watched her with curious eyes. “And somehow or other,” she added, after a long interval, “I must pay Mr. SHOOH!” “That’s no reason,” said Ann Veronica, speaking through her handkerchief and stopping abruptly.
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