“It seems to me it comes to earning one’s living in the long run,” said Ann Veronica, coloring faintly. I haven’t, anyhow. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. She leaned forward and addressed him. And there was another matter. .
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