“Allow me,” the doctor said, “to give you a word of advice, Miss Pellissier. ‘I kissed you once, didn’t I?’ Her pulses jumped and she stared. One was in the Indian Civil Service and one in the rapidly developing motor business. With something near to horror they found themselves thus confronted. It is better as it is. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. “Sure, are you sure you’re okay?” He exited off the highway onto a quiet road and pulled over. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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