Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. ’ Lucilla Froxfield laughed gaily. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. She ducked behind a pile of unused drywall. She was dressed in a little white frock, with a very long body, and very short sleeves, which looked (from a certain fullness about the hips,) as if it was intended to be worn with a hoop. But he would make it a point not to speak again to the girl. Being a Chinaman in blood and instinct, he despised all spinsters; they were parasites. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. It’s an instinct.
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