I would have married her long ago, but she will not have me. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. I will be as silent as the grave. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness. Pennsylvania Dutch. I wonder. The quiet encounter and home-coming Ann Veronica and she had contemplated was entirely disorganized by this misadventure; there were no adequate explanations, and after they had settled things at Ann Veronica’s lodgings, they reached home in the early afternoon estranged and depressed, with headaches and the trumpet voice of the indomitable Kitty Brett still ringing in their ears.
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