Ann Veronica was carried off her intellectual and critical feet by it altogether, and applauded and uttered cries that subsequent reflection failed to endorse. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. "There," cried Jackson, closing the book and rising, "that'll do. The world into which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers. The very old lady in the antimacassar touched Ann Veronica’s arm suddenly, and said, in a deep, arch voice: “Talking of love again; spring again, love again. That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. “My father’s sisters used once to live in the old manor house.
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