“Mr. He had no use for Ann Veronica; he had never had a use for her since she had been too old to sit upon his knee. "Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. He nodded silently, too full for words. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. “You can’t imagine,” Sydney exclaimed, “that the people downstairs will be such drivelling asses as to believe piffle like that. .
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