You might trust me with the Chevalier himself,—I'd never betray him. Her voice shook, her eyes were very soft and melting. She took up a book and threw it down again. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. “You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand. “Why not?” he exclaimed.
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