He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. He saw the girl, and sprang up in bed. “You can’t imagine,” he said, “what a beastly thing a furtive love affair can be. Wood, reproachfully, as they returned to the parlour. That would come later. They are mine! They were sent to ‘Alcide’ not to you. She was unusually pale, and her eyes were brilliant. He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. Not for me. But, as he made no answer, he was removed. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.
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