Ann Veronica felt suddenly an effect of tremendous pathos; she would have given anything to have been able to frame and make some appeal, some utterance that should bridge this bottomless chasm that had opened between her and her father, and she could find nothing whatever to say that was in the least sincere and appealing. The baby boy was delivered in a sea of black blood, born dead and blue, and strangled by plague. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. You have neither reason nor logic. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. He played variations on this theme for the better part of an hour.
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