The quiet encounter and home-coming Ann Veronica and she had contemplated was entirely disorganized by this misadventure; there were no adequate explanations, and after they had settled things at Ann Veronica’s lodgings, they reached home in the early afternoon estranged and depressed, with headaches and the trumpet voice of the indomitable Kitty Brett still ringing in their ears. She cried out his name in ecstasy. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. It shall never be said that I raised my arm willingly against a woman. You had better let me go again. After all, that was life. “Of course,” he ventured, “I could try for more at the ‘Alhambra. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me.
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