She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. She stood up and he sat down at the microscope, and for a time he was busy scrutinizing one section after another. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. To-night she could have hugged both the old maids. The nuns, they were very good with a whip. Ann Veronica considered her answer. Once in England, she made all haste to visit Remenham House. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. Sheppard, returning his embrace with all a parent's tenderness. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain.
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