. . He slid out of her. “I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. Why must her old nurse discover her precisely at this moment? ‘What are you at now, may I ask?’ Martha glared at the footman. She went to the table under the end window at which she had been accustomed to work, and found it swept and garnished with full bottles of re-agents. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. It is abominable—” “What is the use of keeping up this note of indignation, Ann Veronica? Here I am! I am your lover, burning for you.
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