So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. He drew an awed breath. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Her aunt had a once exasperating habit of interrupting her work with demands for small household services, but now Ann Veronica rendered them with a queer readiness of anticipatory propitiation. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. The youth with the hair brushed back and the spectacled Scotchman joined in the fray for and against the women’s vote. E. "Much that I would willingly forget. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care.
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