“You are an impostor. “Marriage and mothering,” said Ann Veronica, with her mind crystallizing out again as the lark dropped to the nest in the turf. She brought her hands up to her head and ripped out two long chunks of her hair, pulling out shreds of scalp. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. I shall still believe in you. “I had no idea that it was so abominably late. “I am fairly well known here. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered.
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