“Is it your maid?” he asked. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. This threat terrified Ann Veronica so much that she declared with sobs and vehemence that she would never come home again, and for a time both talked at once and very wildly. Hurt beyond what he could imagine by the selfishness and pride of her forbears, whose fateful disputes had robbed her of the life she should have led, the plucky little devil had taken matters into her own hands. The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the next gust would precipitate them into the river. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. “I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea.
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