"I shall need little more. ‘You little fool! I’m a trained soldier with ten years experience at my back. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. Neither father, aunt, nor brothers made a sign, and then one afternoon in early February her aunt came up in a state between expostulation and dignified resentment, but obviously very anxious for Ann Veronica’s welfare. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me.
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