He had no use for Ann Veronica; he had never had a use for her since she had been too old to sit upon his knee. ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade. It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. ‘But I am perfectly serious,’ he returned in a voice of protest. You have the look in your eyes to-night which you had that day, the look of a frightened child. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified.
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