Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. “I shouldn’t have waited,” she said. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. They used the rope—not that a rope was at all necessary, but because Ann Veronica’s exalted state of mind made the fact of the rope agreeably symbolical; and, anyhow, it did insure a joint death in the event of some remotely possibly mischance. "He hears me not! he's gone!" she added, as the door was opened and shut with violence; "something tells me I shall never see him again!" When her father, a moment afterwards, issued from the parlour to ascertain the cause of the noise, he found her seated on the stairs, in an agony of grief. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. “I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said. The hansom sped through the crowded streets. Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. She obeyed, extending her arm.
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