Of course this thing was absolutely impossible. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. They used the rope—not that a rope was at all necessary, but because Ann Veronica’s exalted state of mind made the fact of the rope agreeably symbolical; and, anyhow, it did insure a joint death in the event of some remotely possibly mischance. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered.
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