” “Rules are for every day,” said Ann Veronica. Yet she held her tongue. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. They always get back together. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things.
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