Ann Veronica loved beautiful things, and the beauty of undraped loveliness not least among them; but these were pictures that did but insist coarsely upon the roundness of women’s bodies. This made the eleventh. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. She had imagined she had drowned them altogether. “Vee!” said Miss Stanley, “you hear what your father says!” Miss Stanley struggled with emotion. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight.
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