He glanced at Miss Klegg again, and spoke quickly and furtively, with eager eyes on Ann Veronica’s face. Take that box, and put it into the carriage yourself. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour. Here was a little corner of the past—a tragic corner. His feet would have the firm texture of his hands. "What is your name?" To-day, however, he broke the monotony. ‘C’est ridicule. Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. CHAPTER VIII.
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