“For seven years,” said Ann Veronica, “I have been trying to keep myself from thinking about love. She was very satisfied about this. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. Crossing them, he ascended an eminence, which, from its singular shape, seems to have been the site of a Roman encampment, and which commands a magnificent prospect. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension. "Your assistants are in my power. “Dare!” she said. ” There was a shout of laughter. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily.
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