She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. “Is that plain?” she asked. For the first time that day, she was finally able to look into his face. Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. Capes had altered scarcely at all during the interval, except for a new quality of smartness in the cut of his clothes, but Ann Veronica was nearly half an inch taller; her face was at once stronger and softer, her neck firmer and rounder, and her carriage definitely more womanly than it had been in the days of her rebellion. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement.
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