Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. And then you can go home and think things over before we talk again. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. Angelina's distress over these mischances was pathetic. The Night-Cellar XVIII. But for him——” Something in her sister’s tone startled Anna. He paid the cab, and turned to follow her. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. He grew even harder. B.
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