She had found that proof. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. Nobody toys with me. To my loving husband Rodney, who is truly a dream come true. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. He was into the passage in time to see her slip into another chamber at the end. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. “I suppose you know I like you tremendously?” he pursued.
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