It did not cheer or fortify him with false courage and recklessness; it simply enveloped him in a mist of unreality. Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. “Anna!” she repeated. ” She covered her face with her hands. “You love some one else?” he repeated. God would have taken mercy on her baby, seeing that she had already had too much pain and that he had taken her beloved mother. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. Wood will be here presently. Old Newgate.
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