“You are developing far too retentive a memory for praises,” said Ann Veronica. "Bess wouldn't bear a rival. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. " "Enough," returned Jackson, extending his hand; "and if I've expressed myself warmly, I'm sorry for it likewise. Furiously, she dashed his hands away. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. “Ann Veronica,” he said.
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