She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. 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. She looked around the apartment for other people. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. The Oriental waterfronts were rank with the stuff. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids. But he dismissed that because then she would ask her lover and not him all these things. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. This manoeuvre was so suddenly executed that it took Abraham completely by surprise. She’s a snob. This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. He returned, blue towel in hand.
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