She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. The rest of the crowd followed suit with weak laughter. It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait.
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