. ’ Upon which, she darted through the library door, galvanising both the sergeant and his two militiamen into action. “You remember our first meeting?” “Yes,” he answered hoarsely. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. Sheppard, somewhat alarmed by this preamble. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. 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. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging.
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