The sound of her flying feet brought Gerald leaping for the door. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. Michelle moaned and whined, and Diane resigned herself to 11:00. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. She tossed her head, and, having no further words, moved toward the door. These sisters moved in a grown-up world inaccessible to Ann Veronica’s sympathies, and to a large extent remote from her curiosity. ‘Lord,’ Gerald uttered, his inexplicable annoyance evaporating. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. But here was a girl—she must be a girl, since she was his daughter and pat-able—imitating the woman quite remarkably and cleverly. She turned to Martha as the lad exited by the back door, but her nurse forestalled anything she might have said. “But I wish,” she said, “I had some idea what I was really up to.
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