But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. In doing this, he chanced to raise his eyes and half fancied he beheld, shaded by a pillar at the extremity of the western aisle, the horrible countenance of the thief-taker. It was the one that she had sworn she’d throw out, if only Julian had not liked it so much. “You said you were in love with me,” said Ann Veronica; “I wanted to explain —” “I said I loved and wanted you. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am.
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