“Too bad to keep you waiting,” Annabel exclaimed. There was no one stirring in the flats. The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. “Ann Veronica,” he said. Beneath the hood it was evident that her rebellious hair was bound up with red silk, and fastened by some device in her ears (unless she had them pierced, which was too dreadful a thing to suppose!) were long brass filigree earrings. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible.
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