Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. “I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her. 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. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently.
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