Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. “As things are at present,” she said, “it is true. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber. All this was the work of a minute. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. “Ann Veronica is looking very well, don’t you think?” he said, a little awkwardly.
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