He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. By this time Capes’ hair had bleached nearly white, and his skin had become a skin of red copper shot with gold. She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check. When he returned, it was always the same. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait.
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