’ Then she jammed her hat on her head all anyhow and ran from the room. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. She intercepted the glance the spinsters exchanged, and immediately sensed that she had said too much. She lifted the sheet and gestured for him to join her. I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. And yet for all that— It got into Ann Veronica’s nights at last and kept her awake, the perplexing contrast between the advanced thought and the advanced thinker.
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