As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. ‘Of course. I love some one else. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. Of course, it was ridiculous, this inclination to assist the fugitive, based as it was upon an intangible university idea. “Why on earth,” he asked, “did you hurt me like that?” Ann Veronica did her best to think she had not deliberately attempted to cause him pain.
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