She made up her mind in the train home that it should be a decisive crisis. None this end. Neither you nor your mother shall escape me. Wanton! Had I been one, even God would have forgiven me, understanding. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks.
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