“Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. Ann Veronica was by this time quite shocked at her own thoughts, and yet they would go on with their freaks. A white man takes his life in his hands. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. Anna, I listened to all that he had to say, and I called to him to let me get out. A person of somewhat artificial graces and mannerisms, she was for once in her life perfectly natural.
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