Thus, all her interest in life began to centre upon the patient, who was apparently quite as anchorless as she was. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. I saw someone in there whom I have always hoped that I should never meet again. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. “I don’t care,” said Ann Veronica to the darkness; “I’ll fight it. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things.
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