Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. The only thing that was louder to her was the beating of his heart. . But what a monster was this Emile. She realized that he was the sort of man one does not think much about at dinners. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. "That's a fine tale," said Spurlock. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. At Anna’s words she seemed suddenly to stiffen.
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