The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. You love money. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. Mr. “I think everything’s right,” said Ann Veronica, with the roaming eye of a capable but not devoted house-mistress. When they reached her rooms she stepped lightly out upon the pavement.
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