Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. Mrs. ” “It’s impossible. According to Wu, the young man had not opened his eyes once during the afternoon. “Why on earth,” he asked, “did you hurt me like that?” Ann Veronica did her best to think she had not deliberately attempted to cause him pain. Only she hadn’t. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. .
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