Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. Her heart in her mouth, she heard his foot scrape on the floorboard and knew from his expression that Gosse had heard it too. He wore a French military undress of the period, with high jack-boots, and a laced hat; and, though his attire indicated no particular rank, he had completely the air of a person of distinction. “Perhaps, as I’ve only just arrived,” she remarked, “I might be forgiven if I do not change my skirt. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. Amongst others, the watchman whose box was placed against the churchyard wall, near the entrance to Shoe-lane, rushed out and sprung his rattle, which was immediately answered by another rattle from Holborn-bars. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. But he didn’t marry her. I bound him up good and tight, stuffed his mouth with a length of rope, taped it shut.
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