There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. " Sir Rowland moved irresolutely towards the door, but recoiled before a sad spectacle. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. The ragged edge. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. “I should kill you.
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