“The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. She grasped at the right one, massaging where his grip had been and Gerald hoped he had not bruised her. She came quickly into the little parlour, which now seemed inordinately crowded, and coming up to Melusine, seized her hands in a warm clasp. She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. E. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically.
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