Ennison spoke at last. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it. 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. The latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair.
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