It is abominable—” “What is the use of keeping up this note of indignation, Ann Veronica? Here I am! I am your lover, burning for you. ’ She gestured at his hand, on which Roding’s makeshift bandage had been replaced by a more efficient one. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted. But seriously, things are not so bad as you think. Nothing but the publicity of the place and the recollection of that terrible constituency kept him from attempting some perfectly respectful but unmistakable evidence of his sympathy.
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