And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. . ” “Oh, okay. But calmer thoughts quickly succeeded. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise.
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