He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. "In spots you are a thoroughbred; but here's a black mark on your ticket, lad.
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