Mrs. Dalloway

girl without a grain of sense could twist him round her finger. But
at her own risk. That is to say, though he might be ever so easy, and
indeed with his gaiety and good-breeding fascinating to be with, it was
only up to a point. She said something--no, no; he saw through that.
He wouldn’t stand that--no, no. Then he could shout and rock and hold
his sides together over some joke with men. He was the best judge of
cooking in India. He was a man. But not the sort of man one had to
respect--which was a mercy; not like Major Simmons, for instance; not
in the least like that, Daisy thought, when, in spite of her two small
children, she used to compare them.

He pulled off his boots. He emptied his pockets. Out came with his
pocket-knife a snapshot of Daisy on the verandah; Daisy all in white,
with a fox-terrier on her knee; very charming, very dark; the best he
had ever seen of her. It did come, after all so naturally; so much
more naturally than Clarissa. No fuss. No bother. No finicking and
fidgeting. All plain sailing. And the dark, adorably pretty girl on
the verandah exclaimed (he could hear her). Of course, of course she
would give him everything! she cried (she had no sense of discretion)