Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. He looked about for his hat, and put it on. Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly.
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