“I love you, Ann Veronica. “And you brought her a man, I presume. Softly she rose to her feet. Then she came a few steps to meet him. Plote was sleeping or deaf. What do you think people will make of that? What will this lover of yours make of that?” At intervals Ann Veronica demanded to go, declaring her undying resolve to repay him at any cost, and made short movements doorward. She almost sprang to her feet. ‘I know what it means, numbskull! Didn’t spend years in the confounded country without picking up some of their infernal tongue. You only live a block away!” 236 “I’ll do my best. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose.
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