“I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o’clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. She tried to imagine the collective effect of the Fadden Ball; she had never seen a fancy-dress gathering in her life. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. She colored faintly. He had been on the point of leaving the restaurant.
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