" "The boy's not at my house," replied Wild. But the cases were not identical. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. She longed to allow him to kiss her again, to touch her again. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive.
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