’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. Too much, perhaps. A sense of impending disaster was upon him. “I wonder!” said Miss Stanley. We’ll be somewhere on the floor above. Gregory B. Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self. Ann Veronica was carried off her intellectual and critical feet by it altogether, and applauded and uttered cries that subsequent reflection failed to endorse.
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