A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Like appendicitis. Ann Veronica found herself in a little stirring crowd of excited women, whispering and tittering and speaking in undertones. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. The major might not indulge in this sort of flirtation in the ordinary way, but he had seen enough among his army colleagues to know just how to go about it.
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