In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. Nice, of course. Her aunt was a long time before she answered. “You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand. But this was long ago. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. ” “That brings us back,” said Ann Veronica, “to the mystery. ’ ‘Don’t you dare.
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