You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. Playing became a way of escape. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. Well, you shall know. It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this.
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