She seemed just as stiff and shy as a girl ought to be, Lady Palsworthy thought, neither garrulous nor unready, and free from nearly all the heavy aggressiveness, the overgrown, overblown quality, the egotism and want of consideration of the typical modern girl. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. Hang the wench! Roding was right.
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