‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. ‘But I have been perfectly honest about that. Miss Annabel is her sister. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment. She wants that and needs it more than anything else in the world. This I have sworn to do—this I will do. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. ’ ‘I do not lie to you now,’ she said, near frantic at the thought of losing him. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. “Gods!” cried Ann Veronica, and kept him standing. She listened with growing apprehension to the tale that Gerald told, omitting any mention of pistols and daggers, and at the end delivered herself of various expletives highly unsuited to a lady of her advanced years. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. Let me have more light, that I may behold him.
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