What is it you’re after? Money, I suppose. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. She ran away after she had divined that Gianfrancesco had remarried. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. “You were married to him!” “It could not be legal,” Annabel moaned. Gianfrancesco found himself to be his family’s sole remaining male heir. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed.
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