"Mr. Ann Veronica was one of the few young people—and one must have young people just as one must have flowers—one could ask to a little gathering without the risk of a painful discord. The investigators should have thought to check inside the garbage can. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. But women—women as a rule don’t throw themselves into things like that. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. I want to shout! I want to sing! I am glad! I am glad to be alive because you are alive! I am glad to be a woman because you are a man! I am glad! I am glad! I am glad! I thank God for life and you.
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