She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. 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. His energy began to slip away and she sank her teeth into his fat carotid artery below the piano wire, which had drawn blood from his neck. Melusine made no reply. .
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