Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter’s jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. “That’s all very well when one isn’t the material experimented upon,” Ann Veronica had remarked. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. The manager conceded that he saw, that his original diagnosis was at fault. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence. A pity, en effet, that she dare not truly desire him to rescue her. “You!” she exclaimed. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. The supreme effect for Ann Veronica was its surpassing relevance; it made every other atmosphere she knew seem discursive and confused. ‘I do not understand you.
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