An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell. It was astonishing how seldom it was that his instincts betrayed him. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. For fifteen years!—so long as I can remember! All I wanted was a little love, a caress now and then.
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