It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. "What can it matter to you whether he returns or not, child," rejoined Mrs. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. The small predator subconsciously acknowledged the larger one. “Cheveney!” she repeated.
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