“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. To-night she could have hugged both the old maids. Ramage talked always about women or some woman’s concern, and very much about Ann Veronica’s own outlook upon life. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. She was fine and tender. Lucia watched in fascination as Isobella nodded at her, only three years older than she, nursing her son with a contented smile upon her face. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. He tried to make love to me.
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