The books slid from her arms and fluttered to the floor. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. Not enough of them to make a difference. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions. He drew her closer. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. ” “Well, he was presumptuous,” Annabel remarked, “and he wasn’t nice about it.
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