It was better even than the hymn-singing. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. I’ve got imagination. Gosse must now fight with his back to the altar, and a dais at his heels. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. “I’ll run, too,” she volunteered. We have so many actresses who aspire to great things in the drama, not one who can interpret as you have interpreted it, the delicate finesse, the finer lights and shades of true comedy. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already.
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