Part 4 At eight that evening Miss Stanley tapped at Ann Veronica’s bedroom door. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. Never. She ought to have leapt back on guard. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. The Dawn Pearl. But Melusine was a little inclined to like this side of the major.
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