Her mind wandered back to that fateful day. Wood became sensible that he was not alone. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. “You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. '—'No fear o' that,' thought I. But I'll tell e'e what we might do——" The young man heard no more. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. “Damn!” said Ann Veronica to herself, rousing herself for a conflict. It’s odd, but nothing but cliche seems to meet this case. F. Kneebone—she was too well acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her distraction. Her aunt returned before the packing was done, and Ann Veronica lunched with an uneasy sense of bag and hold-all packed up-stairs and inadequately hidden from chance intruders by the valance of the bed.
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