It would have been a crisis anyhow, but it was complicated in Ann Veronica’s mind by the fact that a letter lay on the breakfast-table from Mr. ” The three men, who had arrived within a minute or two of one another, received her little speech in dead silence. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. . In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I want to hear it from your sister. ” “It was an inspiration—your speaking to him?” “I felt impudent. But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. . .
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