"Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. The perspiration stood out upon his forehead. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. "You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands.
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