Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. Ann Veronica was carried off her intellectual and critical feet by it altogether, and applauded and uttered cries that subsequent reflection failed to endorse. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room.
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