It's just a bad ha--habit." And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe, and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket.

"I really must conquer it, it's too absurd," said she.
"Good heavens, Anne," cried Reggie, "I love to hear you laughing! I can't imagine anything more--" But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn't always laughing; it wasn't really a habit.

Only ever since the day they'd met, ever since that very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie wished to God he understood, Anne had laughed at him.

Why?
It didn't matter where they were or what they were talking about.

They might begin by being as serious as possible, dead serious--at any rate, as far as he was concerned--but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne would glance at him, and a little quick quiver passed over her face.