A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. The man lingered. ” “One may do both,” said Ann Veronica.
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