“It’s the spring,” he said. She was weeping now. The small Diedermayer clan was a captive audience. " "Hold!" interposed Winifred, gravely. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious.
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