For a time Ann Veronica went on her way gauging the quality of sordid streets. She’s as stubborn as the proverbial mule, and—’ with a sigh that felt wrenched out of him ‘—utterly captivating. She had seen for herself right up in the bedroom window with her binoculars when Joanie was gone shopping one night, right with her own eyes. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. Wanted a clean sweep for elbowroom. There was one verse that haunted and mocked her. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. After the sights he would have to twiddle his thumbs until the joints cracked. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent.
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