Wood, in equal trepidation. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. She slipped into bed and struggled to stay awake until she heard Cathy and Larry 14 stirring. He would teach her all he knew of life so that if the Hand should ever reach his shoulder, she would be able to defend herself. When she confessed all this to her charge, telling the now grown up babe that there was no hope in the world of establishing any claim, she very soon discovered her mistake. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence. All these circumstances,—slight in themselves, but powerful in their effect,—touched the heart of the widowed carpenter, and added to his depression.
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