"Have you been more successful, Sir?" ventured Ireton. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. “How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh. “You!” said Ann Veronica. The next weekend arrived and she made her decision. The thought of Capes flooded her being like long-veiled sunlight breaking again through clouds. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced.
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