” He went to the window and fidgeted with the blind, looking out to where the tree-tops of Regent’s Park showed distantly over the houses. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. “I mean to,” she replied. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. The house had in fact been converted into a convent, but the fact could not be advertised, not even in the Catholic enclave that existed in this part of town. . “I am off to-night,” he said. “Why not?” he exclaimed. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes.
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