” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. “But who’s going to pay for the room?” “I’ve got money,” said Ann Veronica. “What did it matter?” she cried. “But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me. There is worse to come.
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