In truth, she liked Gerald also. Ann Veronica listened thoughtfully, with her eyes on the turf, and now and then she asked a question or looked up to discuss a point. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. Plote was sleeping or deaf. “It’s because I mean to send it back altogether,” she said. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. A girl of fifteen or sixteen gave her a handbill that she regarded as a tract until she saw “Votes for Women” at the top. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. One peculiarity she did not fail to notice. “You haven’t come here to make a lot of difficulties?” she asked.
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