"What's the matter?" demanded Jonathan, harshly. He felt her observance and warmed to it. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “I want my life to be beaten gold just in order to make it a fitting setting for yours. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. Something in her tone made him look up.
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