And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. For a time Ann Veronica’s attention was diverted by her aunt’s interest in the salted almonds. Don’t ask me how. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. “Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast. ’ There was a silence.
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