Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles. Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. Anna found herself next Sydney Courtlaw, with his friend close at hand. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding.
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