Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. He knocked his pipe on the teak rail. They used the rope—not that a rope was at all necessary, but because Ann Veronica’s exalted state of mind made the fact of the rope agreeably symbolical; and, anyhow, it did insure a joint death in the event of some remotely possibly mischance. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. Concealed among the trees that edged the estate grounds, the watchers paused. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be his restrained and dignified friend. She felt sticky and ashamed when he dropped her off a block away from the McCloskey house as she had requested.
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