In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. It’s not you—not a bit. Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. But you will, you will. “I had a dream in the night,” she said. “I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground.
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