Carefully abstaining from thrusting against each other, Ann Veronica and her father began an absurdly desperate struggle, the one to open the door, the other to keep it fastened. He filled his pipe slowly. A radiant smile astonished him. He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne.
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