“Ann Veronica,” he said, “I tell you this is love. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. “Had the pleasure of dining with you at the ‘Ambassador’s’ one night, before the show, you know—last September I think it was. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. Only Leonardo, and then Jack, had shown her that she might be admired.
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