“Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said. Why do you think I’m indulging in all this very un-English love talk?’ ‘But you are idiot, Gérard. They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Men are against her. She parted the curtains to find him standing there.
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