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And girls and women, perhaps, are different. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. These sisters moved in a grown-up world inaccessible to Ann Veronica’s sympathies, and to a large extent remote from her curiosity. She was shaking violently when she entered the side door of the house. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. ‘While you are making me this interrogation, my poor Jacques bleeds to death.
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