He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. “A wonderful piece of work,” he declared. It consisted of a close jerkin of brown frieze, ornamented with a triple row of brass buttons; loose Dutch slops, made very wide in the seat and very tight at the knees; red stockings with black clocks, and a fur cap. We’re different. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. I'll send you word when I catch him. If you were ten years younger, you'd have me wondering.
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