There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. She thought of how much she wanted to eat the foods she had once feasted on that now smelled as innocuous as spring flowers. Ann Veronica thought it was a spontaneous release of energy expressive of wellbeing, but Ramage thought that by dancing, men, and such birds and animals as dance, come to feel and think of their bodies. Your aunt liked the pheasant. Anna was more difficult. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them.
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