She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop. The man was mad to marry me. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Youth finds it pleasant sometimes to be melancholy.
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