I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. The fever came. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. This helped to restore Ann Veronica’s self-command. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. They heard voices inside but stood for a full thirty seconds looking at each other. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. “Why not? Isn’t the whole thing a lie? Isn’t her reputation, this husband of hers, the ‘Alcide’ business, isn’t it all a cursed juggle? She hasn’t the right to do it. She is a fortune-teller and a vessel for man’s pleasure.
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