You must live for me. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. He smothered a laugh. She looked down at him and saw that the sunlight was gleaming from his cheeks, and that all over his cheeks was a fine golden down of delicate hairs. It was a brief solitude, however. “Indeed,” she said, “it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon. “You know I’m old-fashioned, Miss Stanley. One gets drawn into things. I can imagine nothing more pleasant in life than to help you, because I know it would pay to help you.
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