‘What else do you expect? It’s the penalty you pay for marrying an Englishman. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. I thought my sister and her murdered husband dragged me hither, to this very room, and commanded you to slay me. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. That, I think, is manifest. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig.
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