He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “After all, it’s our honeymoon. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband. ” “Pick you up at 4:00? My parents would like to invite you to my house for dinner. ” “You forget,” she said, looking up at him with a faint smile, “that under the cloak of her name I am earning more money a week than I could ever have earned in a year by my own labours.
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