“Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. They used the rope—not that a rope was at all necessary, but because Ann Veronica’s exalted state of mind made the fact of the rope agreeably symbolical; and, anyhow, it did insure a joint death in the event of some remotely possibly mischance. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love.
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