But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. A sense of loss was amongst us. “Beautiful these autumn flowers are,” said Ann Veronica, in a wide, uncomfortable pause. You must come and tell me all about it, although I am not sure whether we shall forgive you for not having written to any of us.
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