She drew a breath, and sighed it out. Ann Veronica, with a sigh at the cost of hospitality, made a hasty negotiation for an extra tea and for a fire in the groundfloor apartment, and preened herself carefully for the interview. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. “How unkind!” she exclaimed. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. She recognized the face but could not quite place it.
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