She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. Stanley pronounced, and seemed to hesitate whether he had not gone too far. He proposed, he wanted to possess her! He loved her. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica.
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