He’d borne mention of the woman’s name. Michelle answered the door. “If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. He stood by her side, and he suffered her hands to rest in his. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. Great vistas of history opened, and she and her aunt were near reverting to the primitive and passionate and entirely indecorous arboreal—were swinging from branches by the arms, and really going on quite dreadfully—when their arrival at the Palsworthys’ happily checked this play of fancy, and brought Ann Veronica back to the exigencies of the wrappered life again. A brief calm succeeded. “See you at school tomorrow. “Nothing so base. Then it dawned. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off.
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