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“I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. Then Ramage appeared with effusion, and ushered her into his inner apartment. He reached over and took her hand. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. The flight. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. He would have to go on; he would be forced to enact all the obligations he had imposed upon himself.
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