“I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica to the darkness; “I’ll fight it. ‘You’re right. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion.
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