There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Other girls gathered around like sheep. Ann Veronica surveyed his sloping back for a moment, and then drew her microscope toward her. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily.
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