You can, too, if you wish. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield. Then suddenly, in front of all those windows, he folded her in his arms and pressed her to him, and kissed her unresisting face. She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. He then made off. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them.
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