I have established a fine trade. I love you—with all my heart and soul. Whatever anticipation Ann Veronica had formed of this vanished in the reality. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. “He writes very well,” said Ann Veronica. What a fool I was to separate the two in my mind. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. We WERE thieves. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing.
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