She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. “Ann Veronica has never looked quite so well, I think,” said Capes, clinging, because of a preconceived plan, to the suppressed topic. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. The contest, however, though desperate, was brief.
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