Even though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance that something was wrong. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket.
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