She flushed with desire and happiness, her husband had returned to her and all would be aright. Of the vast mass of these impressions Ann Veronica could make nothing at the time; there they were—Fact! She stored them away in a mind naturally retentive, as a squirrel stores away nuts, for further digestion. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. I couldn’t help the thought.
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