“What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. She nuzzled his chest and he breathed deeply of the scent of her Finesse conditioner. People think it is, but they are wrong. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. “No. She did not know herself. I never realized how fabulous all those homemade dishes were. If hate could kill, Ramage would have been killed by a flash of hate. I don’t defend it.
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