‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. “Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. . It did not seem quite fair.
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