Stanley, having pretended to linger to smoke, fled suddenly up-stairs to petrography, and when Veronica tapped he answered through the locked door, “Go away, Vee! I’m busy,” and made a lapidary’s wheel buzz loudly. “Yes, but maybe later. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. He seemed to know a great deal about life. And to think that man got it all out of the poorest little love-story for a respectable titled lady! Have you read of it?” “Never. For when this Joan said it, I had a memory. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping.
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