Her stifled misery had betrayed her. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. In the afternoon he probably loafs in his pajamas. It is not the woman who speaks there. Ann Veronica found herself incompetent, undignified, and detestable, holding on desperately to a hardening antagonism to her father, quarrelling with him, wrangling with him, thinking of repartees—almost as if he was a brother. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. What she admired in her man was his resolute defense of his opinions. Sheppard.
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