"Oh! nothing at all," answered Jack, sneeringly, "though this room's as much mine as yours, for that matter. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. Sir John saw it, and was flattered. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. She has no proof—yet. Very intelligent, by the looks of the books she was carrying. ’ ‘That’s odd.
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