But I shan’t try to stop you. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. Then a third secretarial opening occurred and renewed her hopes again: a position as amanuensis—with which some of the lighter duties of a nurse were combined— to an infirm gentleman of means living at Twickenham, and engaged upon a great literary research to prove that the “Faery Queen” was really a treatise upon molecular chemistry written in a peculiar and picturesquely handled cipher. “What is the good of pretending?” she said.
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