The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. Her aunt had a once exasperating habit of interrupting her work with demands for small household services, but now Ann Veronica rendered them with a queer readiness of anticipatory propitiation. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. “Oh, please. “How gratified she must have been! If only I had known I would have made an effort to get home in time for dinner. The great ordeal—that which she had most dreaded—had proved to be no ordeal at all. Please don’t let any one know that.
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