That might happen on her birthday—in August. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. For a time Ann Veronica’s attention was diverted by her aunt’s interest in the salted almonds. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. He was not sure that the boy had put himself beyond the pale; merely, the boy's actions pointed that way. I am not going to be a chorus girl, or even a super.
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