Ann Veronica’s universe, which had never been altogether so respectful to her as she could have wished, gave a shout and whirled head over heels. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. I’ll protect you!” He cried. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. One of her duties, after she had been taught to read, had been to read aloud after breakfast and before going to bed. Perhaps her odd beauty—and that too was natural—stirred these thoughts into being. Whatever may happen to-morrow I shall be none the better for anticipating its miseries to-day. "There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. On the way home he was still thoughtful.
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