The chief of these was a figure of Liberty, with a cat at her feet, in allusion to the supposed origin of the fortunes of its former founder, Sir Richard Whittington. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. It engulfed them in black, white, and gray. “What can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. It was hard to resist. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. She is your sister, and God knows I wish her none.
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