“It was inevitable,” he declared. Rollo barked. Part 3 Ann Veronica’s father was a solicitor with a good deal of company business: a lean, trustworthy, worried-looking, neuralgic, clean-shaven man of fifty-three, with a hard mouth, a sharp nose, iron-gray hair, gray eyes, gold-framed glasses, and a small, circular baldness at the crown of his head. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. ‘You are, I think, a gentleman, no?’ Gerald bowed. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road. The age of this individual could not be more than twenty-one; his figure was tall, robust, and gracefully proportioned; and his clear gray eye and open countenance bespoke a frank, generous, and resolute nature. Each arm of the blouse had the faintest of rings around the elbow, a stain that looked familiar. For a few minutes all was silent.
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