Of the vast mass of these impressions Ann Veronica could make nothing at the time; there they were—Fact! She stored them away in a mind naturally retentive, as a squirrel stores away nuts, for further digestion. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. Her expression was a little changed, less innocent, more discerning. “Anna! What tragedy has happened, little sister? No lights, no supper, no coffee —and, above all, no Mr. " "Silly love stories?" "No; love wasn't the theme. You see, it's like this.
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