” “It’s very kind of you—” began Ann Veronica. She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. The acid of this incertitude had disintegrated his nerve; and in Canton had come the smash. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
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