She thought of all sorts of odd and desperate expedients, and with passionate petulance rejected them all. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. “How are those books any different from the witchcraft books?” “I dunno. ” She changed the subject abruptly. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. I am not boring you, am I?” She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face.
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