So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. Her aunt had a once exasperating habit of interrupting her work with demands for small household services, but now Ann Veronica rendered them with a queer readiness of anticipatory propitiation.
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