’ A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. 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. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. She took some shirts, underwear, shoes, a duffel bag, and his wallet to make it look like he had gone a-traveling. With the aid of a penknife he ripped the shoulder seams and drew out the ten one-thousand dollar bills.
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