" "Would you like to have me read to you?" He did not answer. “He couldn’t look me in the face and say it,” said Ann Veronica. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. Henceforth, I utterly throw off the yoke you have laid upon me. Love!” He held her arm and abandoned it again at her quick defensive movement. Their conversation became stilted. He became a little less en garde. All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her. He was mad. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London.
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