He saluted awkwardly. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. “I believe it is. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. “Ann Veronica,” he said. I came to see you on my own account. I could not dream of loving you.
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