“Let go!” said Ann Veronica, through her teeth, strenuously inflicting agony, and he cried out sharply and let go and receded a pace. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. “If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. ‘See that writing table? Go and look in the drawer there. You keep on coming truer, after you have seemed to come altogether true. He recalled with exasperating perplexity her clear, matter-of-fact tone as she talked about love-making being unconvincing. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. The girl had told him distinctly that her name was Anna. She was like an angel with one wing. Those who act wickedly bring misery on all connected with them.
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