CHAPTER XIX. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices. “In private. ” “Cooped up!” he cried. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. I have strength enough to drag myself there, and I do not want to return. They even talked about friendship. But he had shown no desire for information, no curiosity. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding. There was—a service. He's had a hard knock somewhere; and until he is strong enough to walk, we must keep his interest away from that thought.
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