Ann Veronica sat back with a sigh of relief. That dress! Only a man—and an unworldly one—would have permitted you to proceed on your adventure dressed in a gown thirty years out of date. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. With a strong tendency to satire, but without a particle of malice or ill-nature in its display. F. "It is your son.
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