I’m glad I did. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. I received a telegram, as you know, during dinner. Ann Veronica felt no repulsion at the prospect. For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. Others pulled hats over their noses, cowered in their seats, and feigned that all was right with the world. For now, I fear there is something worse, something more present. To love in such a way, it is excessively selfish. “Stop it!.
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