She had lost her nerve, and there was no more freedom in London for her that night. "Because you did not wish to hurt me?" "Yes. What the devil is her name, now we know she isn’t you?’ ‘Yolande,’ supplied Melusine. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. No sooner had Trenchard crossed the threshold than a fierce barking was heard at the farther extremity of the passage, and, the next moment, a couple of mastiffs of the largest size rushed furiously towards him. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly.
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