” “Couldn’t I make a treaty?” Ann Veronica thought, and could not see any possible treaty that would leave it open for her to have quasi-surreptitious dinners with Ramage or go on walking round the London squares discussing Socialism with Miss Miniver toward the small hours. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent. “If I didn’t love you better than myself,” said Capes, “I wouldn’t fence like this with you. By instinct. In response to an almost imperative gesture from the nurse, Anna laid her hand upon his. He had removed his silk hat, and now sat looking at Ann Veronica over an untouched cup of tea; he sat gloating upon her, trying to catch her eye. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space.
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