Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. "Do you not know me, father?" said the young man, advancing towards him, and warmly grasping his hand. She crooked her finger. “I’ll buy a new one.
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