” Miss Stanley reflected as Ann Veronica went toward the house. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips. Gladstone would have to a carelessly displayed interior on a dissecting-room table. A sudden knock at the door startled her. She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. Nor is Theresa, or even Thérèse. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. She gloried in it: he needed her.
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