She was noisy and hilarious and enthusiastic, and her hair was always abominably done. She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. “Yes,” said Ann Veronica, trying to think where they were, trying to get things plain again that had seemed plain enough in the quiet of the night. ‘Don’t be silly. He knocked at the door.
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