Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. The tired woman looked up in inquiring silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. It was a fetching gown that stretched tightly in a cream colored swath over her breasts and expanded to a full skirt with a petticoat. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. “I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. This left Spurlock alone.
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