‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. Brendon told him the name of a distant restaurant and sprang in by her side. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. ” 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. The more her thoughts dwelt upon the subject, the more convinced she was that she could not go to any one for help; she would have to solve the riddle by her own efforts, by some future experience. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. “I wonder,” he said, “is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered.
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