” For some creditable moments in her life Ann Veronica was utterly disgusted with herself; she was wrung with a passionate and belated desire to move gently, to speak softly and ambiguously—to be, in effect, prim. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?" "I remember. The Night-Cellar XVIII. Besides, I'm afraid her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn. ” “Much better,” she agreed. And I’d do it again for you if needs be.
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