Ann Veronica surveyed his sloping back for a moment, and then drew her microscope toward her. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. She tried not to pant, not to reveal herself, and she began to shake. “You know nothing about the stage. ” She replied, smiling awkwardly. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. She let Jack go as he passed through the opening. But Sheppard was not to be silenced. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company.
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