The villagers were thronging to church. The quiet encounter and home-coming Ann Veronica and she had contemplated was entirely disorganized by this misadventure; there were no adequate explanations, and after they had settled things at Ann Veronica’s lodgings, they reached home in the early afternoon estranged and depressed, with headaches and the trumpet voice of the indomitable Kitty Brett still ringing in their ears. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. Funk! I’ll see it out. They are arbitrary and unjust and dogmatic and brutish and lustful. Martin said “Hi” to her in the halls every day now, a sure sign of trouble. But the first one was brought home, and it was the beginning of the end.
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