It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. Come and see him, Lucia. “It is true,” he said, “that I was dining last night at a restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes, and it is true that my companion was a young lady whose name is Pellissier. " He rose for fear she might touch him again. I think too much about myself. He recoiled from the sting. No— no, it must never be.
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