“Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. She quickened her pace, and so did he, talking at her slightly averted ear. Her aunt had a once exasperating habit of interrupting her work with demands for small household services, but now Ann Veronica rendered them with a queer readiness of anticipatory propitiation. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. Imperceptibly almost Ann Veronica began to acquire the new attitude, even while her mind still resisted the felted ideas that went with it. I don’t have to take this shit.
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