Anna held out her hand, and he paused. He began to tell me something—and stopped. She wrapped her legs about his hips as he raised himself upon straight arms, piercing her with his gaze as he thrust into her. Her impressions of this cardinal ceremony were rich and confused, complicated by a quite transitory passion that awakened no reciprocal fire for a fat curly headed cousin in black velveteen and a lace collar, who assisted as a page. In her case the barrier was not selfishness but the perception that her interest would be misinterpreted, naturally. She drew up a chair and sat down, putting her palm on the damp, cold forehead. The Widgett method of thought puzzled her weakly rhetorical mind. And put ‘em in little books for remembrance. He had no use for Ann Veronica; he had never had a use for her since she had been too old to sit upon his knee.
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