He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. Get on with it, then. What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. ” He was arrested for a moment by an indistinct picture of Veronica reading this last sentence. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books.
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