White men never went abroad without helmets. About this time,—namely, in November, 1703— while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. After all, that was life. “By God! Ann Veronica,” he said, sighing deeply. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. Ramage talked always about women or some woman’s concern, and very much about Ann Veronica’s own outlook upon life. She detected that the young officer’s shoulders tensed whenever she moved in the back of his 94 car.
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