“I suppose a girl MUST be underpaid and sweated,” said Ann Veronica. “The truth!” It was a moment of awkwardness between the two sisters —a moment, too, charged with its own psychological interest, for there were secrets between them which for many months had made their intercourse a constrained and difficult thing. “If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. It was never intended that I should marry Monsieur Valade, but after the tragedy—’ her eyes darkening in genuine distress ‘—and that he was the only survivor, he came to me in the convent and married me, and brought me to England. I'll try a strong dose. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. But I’m thinking as how I’d best report to the major over this here shooting.
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