Wood. . You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. You’re of age— you’re of age.
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