“It—it—must come,” she faltered. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. “And besides,” said Ann Veronica, sweeping that aspect aside, “what could I do? A boy sails out into a trade or profession. ‘You would like? And do you imagine that I will tell you?’ ‘Won’t you?’ ‘No, a thousand times. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. I've always been more or less music-mad. But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame. “To be an actress,” he said, “you require a special and peculiar temperament.
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