” “And you?” asked David Courtlaw. Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by emotion. Silence! Then Anna clutched her companion’s arm. The musician. If I had never met anything of you at all but a scrap of your skin binding a book, Ann Veronica, I know I would have kept that somewhere near to me. Ann Veronica loved beautiful things, and the beauty of undraped loveliness not least among them; but these were pictures that did but insist coarsely upon the roundness of women’s bodies. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter.
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