The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. “These are her rooms,” she said. . ’ ‘That’s better. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me. . Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. “Delicious!” she murmured. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. She says that everyone in the house makes too much noise, my Dad snores, and that when the house is empty, the traffic noise is nearly deafening.
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