But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. Oh! and love—love! We’ve had so splendid a time, and fought our fight and won. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. She could not run, her limbs were frozen. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica.
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