“But I don’t see,” said Ann Veronica, “just how it fits the present situation. For that matter, my future be damned. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. I’m in a mess—a nasty mess! a filthy mess! Oh, no end of a mess! “Do you hear, Ann Veronica?—you’re in a nasty, filthy, unforgivable mess! “Haven’t I just made a silly mess of things? “Forty pounds! I haven’t got twenty!” She got up, stamped with her foot, and then, suddenly remembering the lodger below, sat down and wrenched off her boots. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor.
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