As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. I—well, I borrowed Anna’s name. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. He had barely said, \"Anytime,\" before she shut the door rather rudely in his face. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. She flew up the covered stairs and knocked upon his door. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. I can’t imagine what possessed you, Veronica.
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