A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. She had found two copies of the magazine and carefully cut out both photos. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. He laughed reassuringly. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. Then his tiny bow mouth opened into an adoring smile. I'll knock off at tea.
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