” For some creditable moments in her life Ann Veronica was utterly disgusted with herself; she was wrung with a passionate and belated desire to move gently, to speak softly and ambiguously—to be, in effect, prim. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. You’re just a particular being with nothing else in the world to class with you. Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. It creaked slightly. This mitigated her remorse enormously. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, pervert?” “Yes sir. She rapped again, louder. ” Ann Veronica was about to reply, when he went on, with a still more deadly quiet: “I am not here to bandy words with you. Give me your hand.
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