“Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. “Girls of sixteen do not need their own laundry hampers. And don't neglect my instructions this time. "Because it's not like you," was her answer. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. Some part of the stiff vigour of the man seemed to have subsided. She was alone with a deadly enemy. “I was very foolish to have been deceived even for a moment.
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