Don't be afraid—I won't hurt you. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. She leaped suddenly at a desperate resolution, and in one moment had made it into a new self. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said. It ought never to have begun. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. Clothes. Mirrors. The satisfaction of cheating Death again.
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