Then he turned to Anna. ” “I will think of it,” she repeated. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. Ann Veronica sat back with a sigh of relief. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. “And if she can’t have the right one? “We’ve developed such a quality of preference!” She rubbed her knuckles into her forehead. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father.
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