The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. One of the sampans was hailed, and a ropeladder was lowered. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else. Brown was no fool, and he understood the sudden onus of the other children to share the limelight. Fortescue had not much ability to keep her sister, and a little while after her mother’s death Ann Veronica met Gwen suddenly on the staircase coming from her father’s study, shockingly dingy in dusty mourning and tearful and resentful, and after that Gwen receded from the Morningside Park world, and not even the begging letters and distressful communications that her father and aunt received, but only a vague intimation of dreadfulness, a leakage of incidental comment, flashes of paternal anger at “that blackguard,” came to Ann Veronica’s ears. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom.
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