Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. Across the blackboard the colored chalks flew like flights of variously tinted rockets as diagram after diagram flickered into being. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. “And children must we women bear— “Oh, damn!” she cried, as the hundred-and-first couplet or so presented itself in her unwilling brain. How do you like the story?” “Go on,” said Ann Veronica, a little hoarsely, “tell me all of it. ” “What do you mean—by too late?” he demanded. Before an hour had elapsed, the concourse was fearfully increased. But we have got to talk upon indifferent themes until we have done with this blond young gentleman from Bavaria. That window there…. The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall.
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