But he would make it a point not to speak again to the girl. Ann Veronica had been an ardent hockey player and had had a course of jiu-jitsu in the High School. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. The necessity of defending herself and assuming a confident and secure tone did much to dispell the sense of being exposed and indefensible in a huge dingy world that abounded in sinister possibilities. "There's no outlet that way. Spurlock mused over the previous night. I can't give you my hand; but you may take it. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington.
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