The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. He kissed her once inside the car. “Oh dear, I’m not dressed. I've seen many a clever cracksman, but never one like him. ” “Rather! But I wonder why you don’t mean it?” “Because, I suppose, the other thing is better. As she had dreaded, the police officer in the car was politely waiting for John to depart, and exited the squad as soon as John turned at the Pine Crest stop sign. Ann Veronica glanced at the mirror to discover a flushed and dishevelled disorder. Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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