The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Kneebone. She had not nursed Leonardo for weeks for nothing. “I say, daddy,” she began, and was suddenly short of breath. G. Suddenly the door of the flat opened and closed. The small predator subconsciously acknowledged the larger one. However good you were to me, and however happy I was in other ways, I should find this intolerable. The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look. It was a cheerful, irresponsible, shamelessly hard-up family in the key of faded green and flattened purple, and the girls went on from the High School to the Fadden Art School and a bright, eventful life of art student dances, Socialist meetings, theatre galleries, talking about work, and even, at intervals, work; and ever and again they drew Ann Veronica from her sound persistent industry into the circle of these experiences.
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