If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. The piece, in three movements, was short enough anyway. For a time they were very difficult. While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. "Do you submit?" interrogated Wild.
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