She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. But something instinctive prevented that, and with the finest resolve not to be “silly” and prudish she found that whenever he became at all bold in this matter she became severely scientific and impersonal, almost entomological indeed, in her method; she killed every remark as he made it and pinned it out for examination. “By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it. The little spot of rouge was vivid enough now by reason of this new pallor, which seemed to draw the colour even from her lips. A woman cannot change her soul. . ’ ‘Ah, but there’s the little matter of your presence here,’ said Gerald on a note of apology. ’ He laughed.
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