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. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. She seized the key, and he grasped her hand and squeezed it roughly and painfully between the handle and the ward as she tried to turn it. “There’s no delusions, so far as I know,” said Ann Veronica.
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