But, you see, I’m smirched. If you had lived twenty years ago you would have been called a Young Person, and it would have been your chief duty in life not to know, never to have heard of, and never to understand. She did not speak to John in the week of school left after the Prom. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. ‘Say then, Jacques, you have followed him?’ she demanded of the blackgarbed footman. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. Think of those days in Paris.
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