All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Gone were the old days where an old maid banged on an upright piano above a roaring crowd, this sound was loud enough to be heard outside the building, she thought to herself as her eardrums throbbed. "Well, I'm glad she's spared this.
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