Imbecile. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. She could not say a word, much less move. The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. Sheppard, smiling through her tears. She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency. You do not need my compliments. That is my way, my dear. ‘Possibly,’ he said. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled. This one too she read.
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