Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. Lights were on and Michelle’s mother was up, occasionally pacing as Michelle and Lucy had been gone for over two hours. The world had grown dark and wide, and she was very small. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form.
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