She had adored the stupid thing, and kept it in her pocket for about ten years. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. “They would spoil every chance. You don’t understand. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. “But I don’t see,” said Ann Veronica, “just how it fits the present situation. I keep on thinking of you.
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