” “What did you say?” “I said, ‘My dear Veronica! how can you think of such things?’” “And then?” “She had two more cups of tea and some cake, and told me of her walk. She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before. ” For some creditable moments in her life Ann Veronica was utterly disgusted with herself; she was wrung with a passionate and belated desire to move gently, to speak softly and ambiguously—to be, in effect, prim. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little while. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. But it was otherwise with the carpenter.
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