“Violence won’t do it,” said Ann Veronica. "I beg your pardon," he cried; "but really—ha! ha!—you must excuse me!—that is so uncommonly diverting—ha! ha! Do let me hear it again?—ha! ha! ha!" "Upon my word," rejoined Wood, "you seem vastly entertained by my misfortunes. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. —I do not congratulate you on your success. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. It might as well be Melusine herself. She seemed to be making some sort of inventory. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. She felt that Ann Veronica had duped her in that dream, and now that she had come up to London she might as well speak her mind.
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