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. In the afternoon she had considered certain doubts very carefully, and decided on a more emphatic course of action. And yet for all that— It got into Ann Veronica’s nights at last and kept her awake, the perplexing contrast between the advanced thought and the advanced thinker. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. ” She spoke with a certain asperity. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little. ‘Who have lately joined us,’ she said, adding sotto voce, ‘A very great tragedy.
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