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She could feel her face turning beet red. She would be healthy, too, and vigorous. But her heart kept on sinking. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. ‘I knowed he were a wrong ’un, but that. Kneebone was attired in the extremity of the mode. She sat very still, and his eyes rested on that ornament for a moment, and then travelled slowly to her wrist and the soft lines of her forearm. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. She expanded that. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow.
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