The pole-chair caravan resumed its journey. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. ” “You are not a coward,” she repeated, “or you would not be my friend. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. “You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. .
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