And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. She took his hand in hers. ‘You’ll make shadows. What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. K-kimble, sir,’ stammered the lad. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind.
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