“She has lost something,” he declared, “something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the ‘Ambassador’s. “Quite alone, sir. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. It would have been a crisis anyhow, but it was complicated in Ann Veronica’s mind by the fact that a letter lay on the breakfast-table from Mr. “Unbelievable. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. “Your great success has been my joy, our joy as well as yours.
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