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CHAPTER XV. He glanced up. ” She shrugged her shoulders slightly. He was astonished. ” “But Italy—” “Italy’s for a good girl,” he said, and laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder. He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. “Dear me!” he said. But I give you this warning, and let it sink in. Capes agreed with the utmost cordiality.
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