The whole of that relationship persisted in remaining obscure. She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing. Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms. “It’s odd,” said Ann Veronica, re-entering the flat. The day was sunny and pleasant, devoid of chill winds. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. ’ He made a pretence of rising and making a sortie to the corner to see if anyone was there. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp.
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