Gerald’s chest tightened. Ann Veronica sat down in the other arm-chair and darned badly for a minute or so. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. “She’s sensitive soul, far too sensitive to be married to an ass like Gianfrancesco. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence.
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