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. For she knew that men married to get something. Be seated, and calm yourself. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. Manning, relinquishing his cup without answering her question, “when I hear you talk of earning a living, it’s as if I heard of an archangel going on the Stock Exchange—or Christ selling doves. I’m turning into a big fat cow. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I see to the coffee. So now I will say nothing more to you, and you will please to say nothing more to me, for I do not reply. I don’t know what has come over me. I cannot turn into a bat. If we fail,” said Capes, “then—” “We aren’t going to fail,” said Ann Veronica.
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