Wilson reflected that he had never before known a woman who had been able, for any considerable while, to support both a personal and an intellectual passion.

Sitting behind her, he watched her with perplexed admiration, shading his eyes with his hand.

In her dinner dress she looked even younger than in street clothes, and, for all her composure and self-sufficiency, she seemed to him strangely alert and vibrating, as if in her, too, there were something never altogether at rest.

He felt that he knew pretty much what she demanded in people and what she demanded from life, and he wondered how she squared Bartley.

After ten years she must know him; and however one took him, however much one admired him, one had to admit that he simply wouldn't square.