The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. She found she could do her microscope work all the better for being in love.
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