“NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill.
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