CHAPTER IV. “I don’t love him,” said Ann Veronica, getting a gleam. It felt too good. But nothing followed to indicate that the liquid had stimulated the heart. She sank upon her knees and unbuttoned his coat. The atmosphere was 46 strained and deathly quiet at the dining room table. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. "This is our last transaction together. “I like your brother better than any other man I know,” Anna said at last. I asked him—to take me away. I saw the metal box a hundred times, but I never thought of opening it until the day I fled.
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