Ann Veronica had come down thinking of nothing in the world but her inflexible resolution to go to the dance in the teeth of all opposition. “Well?” she said, sitting down again. She assumed with a kind of mesmeric force all the propositions that Ann Veronica wanted her to define. Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. Things happen to women—proper women—and all they have to do is to take them well. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it.
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