Manning relinquished his cup, and looked meaningly at Ann Veronica. He spoke only when he saw the sing-song girl he wanted to buy. “I think we are growing sensible,” he said. Perhaps in two or three weeks. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. “Marriage certificates don’t tell lies, at any rate,” he said. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets.
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