I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. A shiver slid down inside her. “You could tell me but you’d have to kill me?” He asked with a sardonic grin on his face. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed.
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