She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. Hers were less noble, yet stately. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. ‘Her own,’ Gerald replied. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner.
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