” “I do it—of my own free will,” said Ann Veronica, kissing his hand again. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. That “entirely English” comment was said just to provoke me. His lips parted in a rare smile. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. “Dear me! I wonder where Sir John picked her up. Voilà tout. ’ ‘Very good, ma’am. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that she must clear it up with his assistance, or not at all.
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