It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. . . “And what on earth,” he said, “do you think the world is made of? Why do you think I have been doing things for you? The abstract pleasure of goodness? Are you one of the members of that great white sisterhood that takes and does not give? The good accepting woman! Do you really suppose a girl is entitled to live at free quarters on any man she meets without giving any return?” “I thought,” said Ann Veronica, “you were my friend. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. . . ” “Would you like to be a boy?” “I wonder! It’s out of the question, any way. She laughed nervously, but kept her eyes averted. From one window the beach was always visible; from another, the stores.
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