Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. “Lucy, this isn’t funny anymore. . She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. The expression was wholly different. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. ’ Then she frowned.
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