In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. “You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. But she was disturbed, mysteriously disturbed. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. “You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand. This is the one movement that brings women of different classes together for a common purpose. Father— dead.
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