“It’s like this,” he said, and dragged a stool beside her and sat down with his elbow four inches from hers and made a sketch. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. One swift glance about the room, and a sensation of grim foreboding swept through him. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. “You must arrest me!” she gasped, breathlessly, insisting insanely on a point already carried; “you shall!” The police-station at the end seemed to Ann Veronica like a refuge from unnamable disgraces. We mustn’t make it so.
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