This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be. “Or I know another one who wears cologne. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. It seems to me very silly. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but you appear to be a fellow countrywoman of mine, and in some distress. She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire.
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