He was silent. Kneebone, I'll make one of the party. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. It might prove rewarding. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. As she talked, the drift and significance of what she was saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica’s apprehension.
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