Instead, her husband was probably wise. Anna, with her marvellous capacity for enjoyment, ate cakes and laughed, and forgot that she had had tea an hour or so ago at an A. He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. “You see, it comes after all,” she continued, “from certain original convictions which have become my religion. I could tell it was Italian, you see.
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