Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home. O'Higgins returned to town and made a night of it, nothing very wild, nothing very desperate. ‘Burned them, one by one, right before that fellow’s eyes. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six.
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