“I believe you are quite right so far as regards the present, at any rate,” someone remarked, from the depths of an easy chair. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Maggot was equipped in a light blue riding-habit, trimmed with silver, a hunting-cap and a flaxen peruke, and, instead of a whip, carried a stout cudgel. Melusine’s eyes shifted.
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