Capes?” she heard her aunt saying. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. Cathy Beck was terribly upset and was on the verge of exploding. She was her mother’s child, fair of face, doted upon and spoiled by her attentions. I walked London till the soles of my shoes were worn through, and my toes were blistered. She remained by the door until the walls of the city swallowed the bobbing lantern. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified.
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