It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. Capes was irritatingly judicial in the matter, neither absurdly against, in which case one might have smashed him, or hopelessly undecided, but tepidly sceptical. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. And besides—We’re going to live, Ann Veronica! Oh, the things we’ll do, the life we’ll lead! There’ll be trouble in it at times—you and I aren’t going to run without friction. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said.
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