To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. Ann Veronica considered her answer. “I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. And why, after all, should she not borrow money from Ramage? It was so true what he said; middle-class people WERE ridiculously squeamish about money. Then she saw the bodies piled in the corner.
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