She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. And, mind! no prevaricating—nothing but the truth will satisfy me. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. The moral right of the author has been asserted. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. The poor old imbecile! Why, this child was a firebrand, a wrecker, if ever he had seen one; and the worst kind because she was unconscious of her gifts. ” Ann Veronica responded with conviction: “I wish so, too. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome.
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