“I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. It seemed to her the last desperate attack upon the universe that would not let her live as she desired to live, that penned her in and controlled her and directed her and disapproved of her, the same invincible wrappering, the same leaden tyranny of a universe that she had vowed to overcome after that memorable conflict with her father at Morningside Park. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. I offered him a hundred to watch Spurlock. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers.
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