It would have been a crisis anyhow, but it was complicated in Ann Veronica’s mind by the fact that a letter lay on the breakfast-table from Mr. I must have something in hand. . Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “Yes. “Call me Annabel. “I hope that Mr. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire.
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