Except for one memorable school excursion to Paris, Ann Veronica had never yet been outside England. He came over to me. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his.
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