Wood obeyed. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. “But,” he said, “you do not blame me altogether?” She rose to her feet. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. He had had five children at irregular intervals, of whom Ann Veronica was the youngest, so that as a parent he came to her perhaps a little practised and jaded and inattentive; and he called her his “little Vee,” and patted her unexpectedly and disconcertingly, and treated her promiscuously as of any age between eleven and eight-and-twenty. ‘And you mean this? Truly?’ ‘Entirely.
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