“Hello, Gwen!” said Ann Veronica, trying to put every one at their ease. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. CHAPTER XVII. “Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. ” Sir John breathed a long deep sigh. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. Tom swore he hadn't set eyes on him since the trial.
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