” Ann Veronica picked a cornflower. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. ’ He added, as alarm spread over the lad’s face, ‘Don’t concern yourself. It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. Montague Hill is. You've betrayed yourself, Thames.
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