” “Impudent beggars,” Sydney growled. “You are mistaken, David. Fortescue had not much ability to keep her sister, and a little while after her mother’s death Ann Veronica met Gwen suddenly on the staircase coming from her father’s study, shockingly dingy in dusty mourning and tearful and resentful, and after that Gwen receded from the Morningside Park world, and not even the begging letters and distressful communications that her father and aunt received, but only a vague intimation of dreadfulness, a leakage of incidental comment, flashes of paternal anger at “that blackguard,” came to Ann Veronica’s ears. “I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. And also she didn’t like them.
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