" He rose for fear she might touch him again. No, never mind about thanking me. She felt smaller and more adventurous even than she had expected to feel. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. He was looking pale and ill. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. He spent the remainder of the afternoon looking for a friend whom he found at last in the billiard room of one of the smaller clubs to which he belonged. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. That is so awful.
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