Wood did think of it, and groaned aloud. Norris. “Not to-night,” she said. “She is living there now,” she remarked. 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. It came to Spurlock suddenly that if something did not react in his favour inside of five minutes, he was done. He continued alternately to be tossed in the air, or rolled in the kennel until he was borne out of sight. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. You’re of age— you’re of age.
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