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His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. The younger of the two, who was seated next to Jack, and seemed to monopolize his attention, could not be more than seventeen, though her person had all the maturity of twenty. She wanted to think. She has power over men’s fates in more ways than one. To her intense disappointment, she discovered that all papers had been removed from desks and cupboards. There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. Ann Veronica blushed. The mother, Cathy Beck, was as patient and as charitable of an individual that Lucy had ever known, a big kindly Polish-American woman with the heart of an angel. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. “Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely.
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