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The inn was a military haunt. 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. “Lift up one corner of the curtain for me. If you ask me, you’ll have to beat her regularly if you don’t want to live a dog’s life. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No. Papa doesn't even care, but he just goes along with whatever my Mom says.
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