Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. She danced with two others. One did not use pistols against a female. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. “Mr. ” It was rare that Ann Veronica used hansoms, and to be in one was itself eventful and exhilarating. No wonder we are anxious that nothing should happen to make him change his mind. I will always think of you with fondness, no matter what.
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