“NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. If they hadn't sent for me, you'd have pegged out before morning. She chose to hold her nose. And such skirts as Ann Veronica had had when she entered the valley of Saas were safely packed away in the hotel, and she wore a leather belt and loose knickerbockers and puttees—a costume that suited the fine, long lines of her limbs far better than any feminine walking-dress could do. To reach the Sha-mien—and particularly the Hotel Victoria—one crossed a narrow canal, always choked with rocking sampans over and about which swarmed yellow men and women and children in varied shades of faded blue cotton. Before ever I knew you. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London. She was going through with that, anyhow. What can a girl do? Somewhere at this point Ann Veronica’s speculations were interrupted and turned aside by the approach of a horse and rider.
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