The major’s hand stilled. “I was trying to design a personal hovercraft. If I had never met anything of you at all but a scrap of your skin binding a book, Ann Veronica, I know I would have kept that somewhere near to me. ‘Damnation!’ Confused, he released her, and in an instant she had darted away and was running down the garden. Only in the sunshine; they would not answer my whistle on cloudy days. So she approached him with sandwiches. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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