“But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. She had asked about that already, and her father had replied, evasively: “We’ll have to see about that, little Vee; we’ll have to see about that. I know that in my heart I would take whatever he gave. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. Mr. ” She looked away from him. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. “I am too much in earnest,” he answered, “to be able to take this matter lightly.
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