The quiet encounter and home-coming Ann Veronica and she had contemplated was entirely disorganized by this misadventure; there were no adequate explanations, and after they had settled things at Ann Veronica’s lodgings, they reached home in the early afternoon estranged and depressed, with headaches and the trumpet voice of the indomitable Kitty Brett still ringing in their ears. He yelled but he had no breath to support his own voice. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. At any rate he made it very clear that night that there was an ineradicable discord in life, a jarring something that must shatter all her dreams of a way of living for women that would enable them to be free and spacious and friendly with men, and that was the passionate predisposition of men to believe that the love of women can be earned and won and controlled and compelled. She drew in a deep breath of the sweet mountain air. His gaze remained steady on the old dame’s face, as he thought about it. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of. Dolby was portly and handsome.
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