“Veronique!” she cried with a rising intonation, though never before had she called Ann Veronica anything but Miss Stanley, and seized her and squeezed her and kissed her with profound emotion. A minute pressure inwards showed him that it was not locked. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Wood.
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