It was at breakfast on this day that he told Ruth he had sent to Batavia for some dresses. “If it’s about that dance project,” he said, “it’s no good, Veronica. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. The completest capitulation would not wipe out that trouble. We shall expect you to tell us all what to wear. Well, I don’t think that’s fair. Ann Veronica said she didn’t care. Why? He could preach the Word and deny Love!—tame the savage heart, succour broken white men!—pray with his face strained with religious fervour! The idea made her dizzy because it was so inexplicable. ‘Dieu du ciel, is this a way to have me say yes? If it is that you do not wish to, why do you ask me?’ ‘Ah.
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