Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. But I see now. . Better even than these. I love you. That is what marriage is to most young women: the ultimate escape from the family, from the unwritten laws that govern children. What Miss Miniver would have called the Higher Truth supervenes.
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