“That’s all very well when one isn’t the material experimented upon,” Ann Veronica had remarked. . . I’ve to collect my sword and hat, and then we must get back to London. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. ‘It is all the fault of that lantern. ’ Her lashes fluttered. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. ’ The smile vanished. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. A person of somewhat artificial graces and mannerisms, she was for once in her life perfectly natural. She was very pale, but she reminded him more at that minute than at any time of “Alcide” as he had first known her.
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