“I don’t see,” gasped Ann Veronica, “why parents and children. He’d borne mention of the woman’s name. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. She washed her face twice after making smudgy eyeshadow and lipstick errors. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear.
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