“Yes, it’s making me poetic....”

“And the smell of the petrol?... The mask and goggles against the dust?... The hideous dress?...”

“Oh, that’s nothing!... To tear and fly along, faster and faster, at a mad pace....”

“I have never been in a motor-car....”[1]

“I have, in Brussels, in a friend’s car. There’s nothing to come up to it.”

Her laugh tinkled out again:

“Yes, now you’re most certainly like a boy!”

“I’m so young?”

“O young Uncle!”

“You oughtn’t to call me uncle, Marianne: I’m too young for it.”