A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. “Lift up one corner of the curtain for me. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. ” The sensation produced was gratifying enough. There would be no mercy in this man. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. Their conversation became stilted. “I shall not speak,” he said, “now or at any other time. ” Anna shook her head. Try and let him never regret it.
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