" "What?" he barked. Mr. " "But what, in God's name, possessed you? You have already wrecked your own life and now you've wrecked hers. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. Don’t take my word for it though. All these wonderful comrades, henceforth and for ever hers. Remote little Ann Veronica! She would never know the heart of that child again! That child had loved fairy princes with velvet suits and golden locks, and she was in love with a real man named Capes, with little gleams of gold on his cheek and a pleasant voice and firm and shapely hands. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. But I know a little place where we’ll get a little quiet talk. You don’t have to have a lot of money to have your own style. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. Miss Garvice assumed a quality of neutrality, professed herself almost won over by Ann Veronica’s example, and the Scotchman decided that if women had a distinctive sphere it was, at any rate, an enlarging sphere, and no one who believed in the doctrine of evolution could logically deny the vote to women “ultimately,” however much they might be disposed to doubt the advisability of its immediate concession.
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