My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. She could hear the raucous laughter and bad music below. But, whether she likes it or not, I aim to be on hand to get her out of it. He is not in a state of mind to bear it. But then Lady Palsworthy had never seen Ann Veronica running like the wind at hockey. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation.
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