He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. 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. ” Annabel rose to her feet. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. “It is your sister and her husband,” he said. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No. .
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