Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. “I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. They had asked her to come to the first of the two great annual Fadden Dances, the October one, and Ann Veronica had accepted with enthusiasm. Great vistas of history opened, and she and her aunt were near reverting to the primitive and passionate and entirely indecorous arboreal—were swinging from branches by the arms, and really going on quite dreadfully—when their arrival at the Palsworthys’ happily checked this play of fancy, and brought Ann Veronica back to the exigencies of the wrappered life again. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem.
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