“Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Yet through these talks, these meetings and conferences, these movements and efforts, Ann Veronica, for all that she went with her friend, and at times applauded with her enthusiastically, yet went nevertheless with eyes that grew more and more puzzled, and fine eyebrows more and more disposed to knit. “It is you alone, Nigel, who have saved me from being an old maid. A rock gave way to deep water. ‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it. It is Anna again who stands between me and ruin. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. It has come,—and sooner than you expected. Horrible details recurred to her.
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