As she approached the corner of the Avenue the blond, no-hatted man in gray flannels appeared. There was a young lad ahead of her. 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. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Michelle, I truly don’t.
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