His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. Poe is all right, if you don't mind nightmares. He dressed rather after the fashion of the West End than the City, and affected a cultured urbanity that somehow disconcerted and always annoyed Ann Veronica’s father extremely. “Well, rather,” said Ann Veronica. " "You look pretty fit. But the morning brought courage again, and those first intimations of horror vanished completely from her mind. But I may yet live to thwart them. The man himself was not a pleasant object. " Spurlock closed his eyes.
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