It was a night well-fitted to their enterprise, calm, still, and profoundly dark. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. In vain Wood protested his innocence. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. Ann Veronica took off her jacket and sat down in the corner chair, and leaned forward to look into the great hazy warm brown cavity of the house, and Ramage placed his chair to sit beside her and near her, facing the stage. If Ann Veronica could have put words to that song they would have been, “Hot-blooded marriage or none!” but she was far too indistinct in this matter to frame any words at all.
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