CHAPTER VII The astonishing collapse of Spurlock created a tableau of short duration. There was no sense in creating further difficulties for herself by arguing with the sergeant over her identity. Ann Veronica considered her answer. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. C. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter’s jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua.
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