“Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. “What can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. But it is my fault. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. ” She looked at him with uplifted eyebrows—a look of whimsical incredulity. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed.
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