So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. “How so?” “I should have shared these things with you earlier, my sweet heart. “You see,” said Ann Veronica, staring before her at the window-sash, “that’s the form my question takes at the present time. He was asleep. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. That’s as far as we go. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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