The tension was palpable. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. She was dressed as a white woman should be; and that for the present satisfied her instincts. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. He became primitive, literal in his conception; the ramifications were, for the nonce, fairly relegated to limbo. The only difficulties that presented themselves clearly to her were the difficulties of getting away from Morningside Park, and not the difficulties at the other end of the journey. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. And in this fact lay his danger.
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