” The doctor looked at her thoughtfully. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. She's too pretty and unusual. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Shall we sit outside and drink a petit verre of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?” “Certainly not,” she answered. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were.
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