Poor little one. Then she and her husband went off to a Yorkshire practice, and had four more babies, none of whom photographed well, and so she passed beyond the sphere of Ann Veronica’s sympathies altogether. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. He kissed her cheek. She became aware that at regular intervals a light flashed upon her face and a bodiless eye regarded her, and this, as the night wore on, became a torment. “Cheveney!” she repeated.
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