Sheila wouldn’t allow me to date a boy even if he was only fifteen—I mean sixteen, like I am, you see. “Come,” she said. Then her fingers moved. Great vistas of history opened, and she and her aunt were near reverting to the primitive and passionate and entirely indecorous arboreal—were swinging from branches by the arms, and really going on quite dreadfully—when their arrival at the Palsworthys’ happily checked this play of fancy, and brought Ann Veronica back to the exigencies of the wrappered life again. But I can't submit to hear the wellearned reputation of my friend termed an 'infamous notoriety.
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