” Ann Veronica meditated over that phrase. Of this boy she had only caught a glimpse;—but that glimpse was sufficient to satisfy her it was her son,—and, if she could have questioned her own instinctive love, she could not question her antipathy, when she beheld, partly concealed by a pillar immediately in the rear of the woollen-draper, the dark figure and truculent features of Jonathan Wild. He stood still, almost breathless. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. Spurlock halted in his tracks. Folks don’t like ’em. “You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. “Ann Veronica is looking very well, don’t you think?” he said, a little awkwardly. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. She always dawdled, so it was easy.
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