Carefully abstaining from thrusting against each other, Ann Veronica and her father began an absurdly desperate struggle, the one to open the door, the other to keep it fastened. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. Gerald instantly took her arm and guided her back to her chair. ’ ‘And who, may I ask, is Dorothée?’ asked Gerald. ‘Come, mademoiselle.
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