Ann Veronica had one of her flashes of insight. Wood carved the ducks; Mr. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. By the time she was done, the bodies in the bathtub were gathering flies. “That’s all,” she said “I’m afraid I’m a little confused about these things. Where is Father Spencer? I must have absolution.
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