Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. The last piece was Scheherazade. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy. She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. Let us proceed with our tale. It was rigged up for the occasion as it has been many a time before. Supposing the wire should break and her head tumble off her shoulders into the street? The whimsey caused another smile to ripple across her lips. Here I am.
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