“It’s odd,” said Ann Veronica, re-entering the flat. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. Whatever those rights may be, whoever I am, my heart is yours. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it.
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