Annette went on touching her lips delicately with salve—he always wished she wouldn't do that.
“Your sister Winifred, and the Car-r-digans”—she took up a tiny stick of black—“and Prosper Profond.”
“That Belgian chap? Why him?”
Annette turned her neck lazily, touched one eyelash, and said:
“He amuses Winifred.”
“I want some one to amuse Fleur; she's restive.”
“R-restive?” repeated Annette. “Is it the first time you see that, my friend? She was born r-restive, as you call it.”
Would she never get that affected roll out of her r's?
He touched the dress she had taken off, and asked:
“What have you been doing?”