Diane Vorsack clicked her tongue in a “tsk”. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. Her aunt went off at a tangent. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. Then, quite insensibly, her queenliness had declined. Or else I would have finished him. But women—women as a rule don’t throw themselves into things like that. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. She was consumed by misery and hate.
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