Ann Veronica found herself in the presence of the most disconcerting fact in human experience, the kindliness of people you believe to be thoroughly wrong. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Secretly she was gratified to be assigned to the rôle of an old traveller. ” “But why?” “He’s married—and, I believe, living separated from his wife.
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