She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. “You fill me with happiness, John. Do not remain with me. ‘Think I’m fool enough to do my business in a convent?’ he said scornfully. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. There was nothing of the phenomenon in this.
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