Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. Were the parents agreeable? Were they of age? Had the license been procured? But here, in a far country, only the velvet manacles of wedlock were necessary. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. Then, as Ramage readjusted himself in a corner, he remarked: “These young people shoot up, Stanley. James’ Park?” Anna nodded, and made a careful selection from a dish of quails. In the next box hangs the rope by which he suffered.
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