She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. You know—I worship you. He pretended to be unaware of the mishap. I feel years younger, a man again. Wood. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. “Concern me!” she repeated fiercely.
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