It reached her only slowly that Ann Veronica was standing to her resolution. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. “I—I am sorry—I didn’t explain. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures.
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