As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. ‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you ever came to England. It was from Brendon. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. For a moment her heart seemed to stop beating. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. Just because she was sorry for that young fool! "Uh-huh," he repeated, rising and bowing as he passed Ruth's table. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. Hoddy! All her fears fell away. The boy was right. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred.
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