” And thus it was that as Ann Veronica neared the gates of home, she said to herself: “I’ll have it out with him somehow. ” She shivered. I am come to serve you. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. Something namelessly abhorrent in the eyes of those men…! She knew what arms were for—to fold and embrace and to hold one tightly; but why men wished to kiss women was still a profound mystery. There must be real Valjeans, else how could authors write about them? Supposing some day she met one of these astonishing creators, who could make one cry and laugh and forget, who could thrill one with love and anger and tenderness? Most of us have witnessed carnivals. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent.
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