I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. ’ She pronounced the name with painstaking accuracy, Gerald noticed. Wild will hang me. . Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. “Annabel?” he exclaimed. Why should she? she asked rebelliously.
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