“Who can tell?” she said. “Thank you. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall. I want to talk to you, and I must return tomorrow. Even in her painting smock and with her disarranged hair, the likeness between the two girls was marvellous. But Jack did not heed them. She had no intention of fighting fair. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. “You cowards!” said Ann Veronica, “put her down!” and tore herself from a detaining hand and battered with her fists upon the big red ear and blue shoulder of the policeman who held the little old lady. 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. Ed.
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