She had, poor inexperienced fool, given herself away. “Ann Veronica,” he said. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. I think a wife a needless incumbrance, and mean to die a bachelor. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply.
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