“Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the next gust would precipitate them into the river. They had asked her to come to the first of the two great annual Fadden Dances, the October one, and Ann Veronica had accepted with enthusiasm. Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee.
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