Someone was coming out of the house. Part of her felt like laughing insanely at how badly she had been duped. Gianfrancesco had told her about it, how he had played in it as a child with his brothers. But the restraint exercised by her instinctive delicacy was very great; over and above coarse or sexual matters it covered religion and politics and any mention of money matters or crime, and Ann Veronica found herself wondering whether these exclusions represented, after all, anything more than suppressions. Altogether, it was the most dreadful noise he had ever heard. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. Men do not understand constancy as women do. All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her. ‘Of course it is,’ corroborated Hilary. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity.
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