Ann Veronica pushed aside a tea-cup and the vestiges of her strawberries and cream, and put her elbows before her on the table. She could tell that they too would find their legs jutting awkwardly from the petite furniture. “No, you weren’t bad in the slightest. I have given up painting. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving. This is a joke of yours. . I was afraid of being talked about. They are blinded to all fine and subtle things —they look at life with bloodshot eyes and dilated nostrils. She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned. Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad.
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