“And to-night we are friends?” “We are friends,” said Ann Veronica, and drew her hand quickly away from him. C. He smiled tenderly. The teacher turned towards the blackboard to inscribe the names of Capulet and Montague. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. That person advanced towards him. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief.
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