At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. In addition to the various business men, solicitors, civil servants, and widow ladies who lived in the Morningside Park Avenue, there was a certain family of alien sympathies and artistic quality, the Widgetts, with which Ann Veronica had become very friendly. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. ‘Because I’m a female,’ declared Lucilla unanswerably. “You’re exactly as I remember you!” “Forever fifteen, remember?” She stepped closer to him into the light of the television screen.
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