Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. " "I tell 'ee what, landlord," observed the old sailor, quietly replenishing his pipe from a huge pewter tobacco-box, as the waterman and Wood quitted the house, "you've said good-b'ye to your friend. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. In the flagged entrance hallway at the bottom, where extra light came in from a window above the double doors, it was easy enough to distinguish a family group, and a landscape which clearly included Remenham House in the distance. It was the one that she had sworn she’d throw out, if only Julian had not liked it so much. Slowly and ruefully she realized why marriage was so idealized among her generations of those before her. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly.
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