“You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. I am the richest man in the world. This woman, contrary to his custom, he answered.
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