Overjoyed beyond measure at having vanquished this apparently-insurmountable obstacle, Jack darted through the door. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. In this hour its colossal selfishness never occurred to him. He’s a quiet person, and he says that quiet people should never become salesmen. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it.
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