Ann Veronica looked down at her fingers on the claret-colored table-cloth. “Yes,” said Ann Veronica, trying to think where they were, trying to get things plain again that had seemed plain enough in the quiet of the night. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. ” He was arrested for a moment by an indistinct picture of Veronica reading this last sentence. He cannot. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared.
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