Part 6 When Ann Veronica reached her little bed-sitting-room again, every nerve in her body was quivering with shame and self-disgust. ‘No, Melusine. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. "Here's one of the thieves, Sir Rowland!" cried the attendant. On the way home he was still thoughtful. It seemed at first the most beautiful afternoon of all time to her, and perhaps the thrill of her excitement did add a distinctive and culminating keenness to the day. On a small shelf near the foot of the bed stood a couple of empty phials, a cracked ewer and basin, a brown jug without a handle, a small tin coffee-pot without a spout, a saucer of rouge, a fragment of looking-glass, and a flask, labelled "Rosa Solis. “You must send for the police at once, you know. ‘Sleeping like a baby, he is. He murmured his delight, and joined the bridge party, where he played with less than his accustomed skill. But she was relentless. I hate what I am.
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