Your Mom says to come downstairs for dessert. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. The door closed upon her, and he moved reluctantly away. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. His interest was divided: while his ears drank in the sounds, his glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to Ruth. Challenge accepted.
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