He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. She's fine. In fact, it had been anciently the right hand postern under the gate leading towards the city. From suburbs, from country towns—everywhere. Ann Veronica was carried off her intellectual and critical feet by it altogether, and applauded and uttered cries that subsequent reflection failed to endorse. And he unsheathed his sword. That suggested delicacy; and yet her young body was strong and vital. It was fastened inside.
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