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She seized the key, and he grasped her hand and squeezed it roughly and painfully between the handle and the ward as she tried to turn it. “And what on earth,” he said, “do you think the world is made of? Why do you think I have been doing things for you? The abstract pleasure of goodness? Are you one of the members of that great white sisterhood that takes and does not give? The good accepting woman! Do you really suppose a girl is entitled to live at free quarters on any man she meets without giving any return?” “I thought,” said Ann Veronica, “you were my friend. I believe I am getting impudent. “Am I dull?” she said. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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