"Ay, what's the matter, boy!" reiterated Jackson sternly. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother. So presently they got into a hansom together, and Ann Veronica sat back feeling very luxurious and pleasant, and looked at the light and stir and misty glitter of the street traffic from under slightly drooping eyelids, while Ramage sat closer to her than he need have done, and glanced ever and again at her face, and made to speak and said nothing. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. We close the chapter. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. "'T is he!" he mentally ejaculated. The little matter of an accent may be misleading, I grant you, but —’ He was interrupted, and with impatience. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. \"Great!\" I'll drive you.
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