“You love some one else?” he repeated. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. I cannot have my wife distressed or worried. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. A crowd was collected round the fellow, who was rapidly disposing of his stock. “I wonder would you mind seeing who it is. " The spinsters had no counter-philosophy to offer; so they turned to Ruth, who had singularly and unconsciously invested herself with glamour, the glamour of adventure, which the old maids did not recognize as such because they were only tourists. .
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