All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. “But it makes me feel inhuman,” he added. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. "That's odd. ” “What else,” Lady Lescelles murmured, “are men for?” Anna laughed. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts.
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