‘No. “Nor am I now,” he answered. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked. "No"—as if her thoughts were elsewhere. But the love of life prevailed over his fears. He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne.
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