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. Kneebone! you would greatly oblige me by surrendering yourself. ” “I mean—” “I behaved like an idiot, that’s all. “How so?” “I should have shared these things with you earlier, my sweet heart. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian.
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