“He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. “Mr. William Kneebone, Of me, Sir, you shall never be bone. Great vistas of history opened, and she and her aunt were near reverting to the primitive and passionate and entirely indecorous arboreal—were swinging from branches by the arms, and really going on quite dreadfully—when their arrival at the Palsworthys’ happily checked this play of fancy, and brought Ann Veronica back to the exigencies of the wrappered life again. ’ ‘Gone off?’ repeated Melusine, her wrongs rising up to tear into her chest. ‘Leave it, imbecile. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that.
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