I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. Kneebone, I'll make one of the party. To his relief, Mrs Sindlesham stepped into the breach, grasping her cane and rising painfully from her chair. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica.
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