They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. Retribution has a queer way of acting sometimes. A bowl of roses, just brought by Ann Veronica, adorned the communal dressing-table, and Ann Veronica was particularly trim in preparation for a call she was to make with her aunt later in the afternoon. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. She looked about and discovered a door partially hidden by shadow. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. So Ann Veronica also was arrested. The door opened.
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