He suckled at her shoulder blade as he slid her panties down. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour.
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