“I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. But one could not count with any confidence upon Capes. Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies.
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