’ The core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. “For great passions, for great accomplishments. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. “Parmesan—take it away!” He glanced at Ann Veronica’s face, and it seemed to him that she really was exceptionally radiant. He had taken it back. Twelve years, then, have elapsed since the date of the occurrences detailed in the preceding division of this history. “Now look here, Veronica, let us be plain with each other. I wonder,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “whether you ever realize how young you are. If he had imagined Melusine would be hampered by her petticoats, he was disappointed. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. He found, however, that now the time had come he utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech.
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