Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. "Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between jest and earnest. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. “Generally gets here about seven. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed.
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