” “But if we were?” said Ann Veronica. . “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. Nevertheless, she was still fighting. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ‘You will like to marry me, yes?’ she pursued. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. I don’t know.
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