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Jack, however, had an expedient for mastering this difficulty. A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. “Will he live?” The doctor shook his head. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. He uttered a short laugh. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale.
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