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She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said. She closed her eyes more vividly to recall some line which had carried the blot. Capes. Life is so good. Worse than any man. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. Hardened as he may be, that would touch him. Anna took up the pen, and signed, after a moment’s hesitation, A.
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