Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Ann Veronica looked bright and a little elated, and she disregarded her father’s invitation to be seated. “The things involved in it are,” he answered gravely. The tension was palpable. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. I shall always be kind to him; I sha'n't bait him.
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