" "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood. And then, as she answered nothing, “Seeing that we are lovers. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. The likeness was ridiculous. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. So it is that I do not do these things. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious.
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