It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty. A coach was also in attendance, at a little distance. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. I’ve bored you or something.
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