Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. So, very carefully, he raised her in his arms and carried her to her bed. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. She is something different. And I want you for myself—for my wife. When she arrived at the Palazzo, not a single sentry was aware of her presence. . ” Anna looked at her sister gravely. I don’t care if you never tell me any of your secrets.
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