“Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. Others pulled hats over their noses, cowered in their seats, and feigned that all was right with the world. Under the circumstances you must permit me to be the best judge of the identity of the young lady who did me the honour, as an old family friend, of dining with me. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. It’s kind of the World War II thing. It could not be she who had done this. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter.
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