He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. While he was thus musing, two horsemen rode past him; and, proceeding to a little distance, stopped likewise. The van started with a jerk and rumbled on its way. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping.
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