The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. ’ Departed? ‘Tchah! I suppose the vicomte threw him out?’ Watching the fellow’s face, Everett felt his suspicion growing. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. Love lives on a higher plane. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us. You must have repented a little, or you would not have done that. She took the initiative and guided his fingers inside her and bore down. Walking into the bedroom, she quickly shed the miniskirt and sweater, folding them without ceremony.
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