She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. Lucy kicked her side, then her wounded leg, dislodging her. Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. Brown gushed conservatively about the orchestra, letting the audience know about the recording engineers and how proud he was of Martin Chen.
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