Ann Veronica paused before she answered. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. It is a very good English name, no? But who is she?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, I should say,’ said Mrs Ibstock, correcting herself.
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