Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. The Return 231 II. ” She spoke with a certain asperity. Ann Veronica’s universe, which had never been altogether so respectful to her as she could have wished, gave a shout and whirled head over heels. Hilary could not have suggested such a thing.
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