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She thought she had hidden well from him. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. Ann Veronica paused before she answered. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Do you think that I am utterly selfish?” She raised her eyebrows. “So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears.
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