His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. The very old lady in the antimacassar touched Ann Veronica’s arm suddenly, and said, in a deep, arch voice: “Talking of love again; spring again, love again. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. Better to remain silent. Then he stepped briskly to his feet and bent over the wounded man. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it.
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