“I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. “You see,” he said, “it is doubtful if we can ever marry. ‘Espéce de diable,’ she screamed. Spurling, who sat on the right of the table. You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath.
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