Veronica lifted grave blue eyes to me trustingly. "You promised me a frush, darlin'," she said.
Veronica is small for her name and has a disarming habit of introducing terms of endearment into her conversation.
"You didn't quite understand me," I said gently. "I said I'd think about it."
"Yes, but that means promising, doesn't it? Finking about it means promising. I fought you meant promising. I fought all night you meant promising. Darlin'." The last word was a sentence all by itself.
Kathleen raised her eyebrows when we came out with the bird in the cage.
"This isn't quite the moment," I said with dignity; "it's best to let her get it first and realise afterwards."
"Let's all go to Crown Hill now," said Veronica in a voice that admitted of no denial.
We were on Crown Hill. Veronica had hugged the cage to her small bosom all the way, making little reassuring noises to its occupant.
"Now," said Kathleen, "hadn't you better begin? Isn't this the psycho—you know what moment?"