For just as though a vague likeness is sometimes borne swiftly in upon one, so a vague dissimilarity between the face on the poster and the heroine of his thoughts had slowly crept into his consciousness. The very old lady in the antimacassar touched Ann Veronica’s arm suddenly, and said, in a deep, arch voice: “Talking of love again; spring again, love again. What can she be? The wife of a country tradesman, or a duchess? And such a meek little husband too. Observe it—a blue-serge coat. I believe you’ve crushed a gland or something.
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