Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. He was caressing an idea. Teas he contributed to the commissariat of Ann Veronica’s campaign—quite a number of teas. He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. The land about these walls is a common graveyard. It wasn’t long ago that a girl went straight from the farm to her husband, just as soon as her period came and she could make babies. She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet. Vorsack.
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