One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. “Go on!” “People talked to you in Paris about us,” she continued, “about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. . . Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding.
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