Ann Veronica found herself in a little stirring crowd of excited women, whispering and tittering and speaking in undertones. "Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" Mrs. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants.
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