‘Mademoiselle. Ann Veronica watched her face, vaguely sympathizing with her, vaguely disliking her physical insufficiency and her convulsive movements, and the fine eyebrows were knit with a faint perplexity. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. You come to England, and hide in a secret convent in London. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding.
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