“You can’t imagine,” he said, “what a beastly thing a furtive love affair can be. Anna crossed the street, and letting herself in at No. The Bitchster strikes again. Ann Veronica realized that she was alone with the world. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden.
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