‘Tell me, my boy. “For seven years,” said Ann Veronica, “I have been trying to keep myself from thinking about love. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. “Remember that the man will probably die. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. S.
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