S. Ann Veronica forgot him as soon as she was through the gate, and her face resumed its expression of stern preoccupation. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. Only au revoir. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. He recoiled from the sting. The first set of occupations seemed to her to be altogether too domestic and restricted; for the latter she was dreadfully handicapped by her want of experience. Her specialty is the central thing in life, it is life itself, the warmth of life, sex—and love. ‘It is necessary that one is at all times ready to protect oneself,’ explained the young lady flatly.
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