She was too wrapped up in the sheer joy of playing again; it had 201 been intimate, masturbatory. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. “It’s a flabby, loose-willed world we have to face. You were only one room removed from the library, see. She drove me. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. Ann Veronica sat back with a sigh of relief. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent.
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