They were looking for a guide. Stanley, putting his hands on the table in the manner rather of a barrister than a solicitor, and regarding her balefully through his glasses with quite undisguised animosity, asked, “And may I presume to inquire, then, what you mean to do?—how do you propose to live?” “I shall live,” sobbed Ann Veronica. You go home and wait a century, Vee, and then try again. “No. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. She had mentioned the address where she and her sister had lived. ‘Give me an opportunity to open my mouth, and I will.
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