Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. If ever I could bring myself to ask you any favour, I would ask you to forget even as I have forgotten. She HAD cried, Ann Veronica knew. ‘I told you I could handle her. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother.
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