The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Every drop of blood in her body glowed and expanded. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. They were both dressed in every respect alike.
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