“My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. No one will ever love you as I love you now. I have only just left Wych Street. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday.
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