“When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. “Damn!” said Ann Veronica to herself, rousing herself for a conflict. She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. I’ve been smoking cigarettes in the preparation-room and thinking this out. ’ It was the Press who forced the identity upon me.
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