“Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. Yet you can look Cheveney in the face and declare that you do not know him. I am five-and-thirty, and I have knocked about in the world and tasted the quality of life. Darrell attempted to reply. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment.
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