A bowl of roses, just brought by Ann Veronica, adorned the communal dressing-table, and Ann Veronica was particularly trim in preparation for a call she was to make with her aunt later in the afternoon. She wondered abjectly whether he intended to rape her before she was dead. “Do you happen to know whether she is supposed to be here?” “Very likely indeed,” Captain Fred Meddoes answered, lighting a cigarette. “But for you Dad would never have let me marry Lescelles. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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