“Let go!” said Ann Veronica, through her teeth, strenuously inflicting agony, and he cried out sharply and let go and receded a pace. Her father intercepted her, and for a moment she and he struggled with their hands upon the latch. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. I know nothing about the girl, save what you have told me. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all. It was the bitterest moment of her life. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions. About many of these houses hung a mysterious taint as of something weakly and commonly and dustily evil; the women who negotiated the rooms looked out through a friendly manner as though it was a mask, with hard, defiant eyes. The clever hostess having let fall that several distinguished guests from France would be present, the world had flocked to her doors to catch, like the gossip-hungry vultures they were, a glimpse of them.
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