Part 2 In the late afternoon, as Ann Veronica was gathering flowers for the dinnertable, her father came strolling across the lawn toward her with an affectation of great deliberation. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. “I think,” began Ann Veronica, “that you don’t realize—” He disregarded her entirely. .
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