For a time Ann Veronica went on her way gauging the quality of sordid streets. It was just then that she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. They vanished through the doorway. She was perhaps three-and-twenty, and very pink and healthy-looking, showing a great deal of white and rounded neck above her business-like but altogether feminine blouse, and a good deal of plump, gesticulating forearm out of her short sleeve. That was something in his favour. He had been reading Belfort Bax, and declared himself a convert. Oh, to face facts! Gods! what a world it might be if people faced facts! Understanding! Understanding! There is no other salvation. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother.
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