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. And you need not fear that I shall not give back the sword when I have finished using it. But not today. Businesswomen in pointy-toed shoes swooned coyly in his direction, tipping their noses over their glossy magazines to admire 273 him. But on this matter my mind is quite made up. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully.
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