Ann Veronica was carried off her intellectual and critical feet by it altogether, and applauded and uttered cries that subsequent reflection failed to endorse. She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. But she was relentless. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. I chose you for your strength, your cunning, your intelligence, your great beauty. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered.
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