She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. It slipped out—as did that “she”. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. The next few hours will tell. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. Ann Veronica thought it was a spontaneous release of energy expressive of wellbeing, but Ramage thought that by dancing, men, and such birds and animals as dance, come to feel and think of their bodies. Her two new friends did their best to entertain her. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself.
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