“You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand. He seemed to be labouring under some great excitement. ‘But don’t let me stop you from going to see Charvill. ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. These convulsions occurred when Ann Veronica was about twelve. It isn’t illusions—for us. "I forbid you to do that.
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