I don't care how soon he learns that he has lost his adopted son. I want to be myself. He was disquieted. It was a cheerful, irresponsible, shamelessly hard-up family in the key of faded green and flattened purple, and the girls went on from the High School to the Fadden Art School and a bright, eventful life of art student dances, Socialist meetings, theatre galleries, talking about work, and even, at intervals, work; and ever and again they drew Ann Veronica from her sound persistent industry into the circle of these experiences. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. I’m not discussing Shakespeare. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. ‘Jacques?’ she called.
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