Part 5 Yet Ann Veronica was thinking a very great deal about love. He needed to laugh, but only she laughed as he chuckled weakly. In this way, more than a month passed over. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. Sometimes I tremble, Anna, to think how near I came to passing through life without a single glimpse, a moment’s revelation of this greatest and most awful of mysteries, the mystery of primaeval nature. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. “I don’t care what any one thinks,” said Ann Veronica. She still had her letter of credit. The ragged edge.
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