‘Do you tell me that my disreputable son had the infernal insolence to pass you off as that whoring Frenchwoman’s daughter?’ His answer was in their faces. The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. Remote little Ann Veronica! She would never know the heart of that child again! That child had loved fairy princes with velvet suits and golden locks, and she was in love with a real man named Capes, with little gleams of gold on his cheek and a pleasant voice and firm and shapely hands. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him.
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