Ann Veronica, with a sigh at the cost of hospitality, made a hasty negotiation for an extra tea and for a fire in the groundfloor apartment, and preened herself carefully for the interview. This, then, was the woman from whom Hoddy would not have accepted a cup of water. Shoplatch. She stared. Don't be afraid, man,—off with it. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. " "Don't anger him, my dear son," implored the poor widow, with a look of anguish at Jack.
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