“Your mother was a Gypsy. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice. He stopped in mid-sentence, and Ann Veronica opened the door for her aunt. 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. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. I charged the thief-taker, as was the fact, with having robbed me, by means of the lad Sheppard, whom he instigated to deed, of the very pocket-book he produced in evidence against me; but it was of no avail—I couldn't obtain a hearing.
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