When she came in after dinner that night, Ruth was no longer an interesting phenomenon, something figuratively to tear apart and investigate: she was talismanic. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. "Not as I loved mine. ’ She shook her head sadly. She found herself in a phase of violent reaction against the suffrage movement, a phase greatly promoted by one of those unreasonable objections people of Ann Veronica’s temperament take at times—to the girl in the next cell to her own. Steeples toppled, and towers reeled beneath its fury. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. She allowed herself to be ejected, therefore, and retired to the parlour after cleansing the blood from her hands and her own slight wound in the kitchen. Ann Veronica decided to be more explicit. An uncomfortable silence followed. "By the way," said the doctor, as he sat down in the dining room of the Victoria and ordered tea, "I've been thinking it over. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. " There had never been, from that fatal hour eight months gone down to this, the inclination to confess. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine.
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