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. But Jack eluded their grasp. There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air. He's worth a dozen of you.
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