“My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. He would never recognize me now. And her mother, looking unusually alert and hectic, wore cream and brown also, made up in a more complicated manner. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. ’ ‘I am relieved to hear it. He was unusually absurd and ready, and all the time it seemed to Ann Veronica as a delightful possibility, as a thing not indeed to be entertained seriously, but to be half furtively felt, that he was being so agreeable because she had come back again. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. ” She could not go on, for she was laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew.
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