She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed. He seemed safe from the sickness, having been surrounded by the dying, he had witnessed the carnage up close and yet his health still prevailed. Then, in a few years, he and Ruth might fare forth in comfort and security. “Okay. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. Wagner had just been in love when he wrote it all.
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