When he awoke it was late in the day, and raining heavily. The doctor frowned. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. “But if some one else asked your advice? If some one else said, ‘Here is my teacher, a jaded married man on the verge of middle age, and he and I have a violent passion for one another. As matters now stand, I'm only a thief, not a blackguard. All the same, I don’t admit it. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her.
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