“I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. The aspect of the place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to him; but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall steeple of Saint Giles's church, the precursor of the present structure, which was not erected till some fifteen years later. Them young prigs is all alike. Already the seed of a tender dream was stirring. A shaft of searing heat plunged downward.
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