She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. Then he entered her passionately, riding her with exquisite precision. Anyone would be intrigued. Here again instinct guided her. He remembered it suddenly. Do you think that it makes for happiness to force oneself into the extravagant belief that love is the only thing in the world worth having, and to sacrifice for it independence, self-respect, one’s whole scheme of life. Lose not a moment, Hobson.
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