’ ‘What, even less delightful than Gerald?’ enquired Lucilla, her eyes dancing. ” “Would you mind telling me,” Anna asked, “how long I knew you in Paris?” He looked at her sideways. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends. . . Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. The chair was torture. . . Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly.
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