When she finally did take her own lover, it was not with a member of the household staff. A pretty piece. "Women must have their wills while they live, since they can make none when they die," observed Wood, as he imprinted a kiss of reconciliation on the plump hand of his consort;—a sentiment to the correctness of which the party chiefly interested graciously vouchsafed her assent. “Ann Veronica,” he said. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. And the woollen-draper departed. ‘Parbleu,’ said Gerald. Dump instantly complied, and as soon as Jack was removed from the sacred edifice, his person was searched from head to foot—but without success. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V.
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