The pavement had been hastily picked up, and heaped across the end of the street, upon which planks, barrels, and other barricades, were laid. The doctor had not heard from his people. That is why I called myself Anna. Ann Veronica woke rather later than usual, and lay awake for some minutes before she remembered a certain resolution she had taken in the small hours. Then she would write and tell her father what she had done, and put their relationship on a new footing. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. She had pushed aside her azure veil, taken off her snow-glasses, and sat smiling under her hand at the shining glories—the lit cornices, the blue shadows, the softly rounded, enormous snow masses, the deep places full of quivering luminosity—of the Taschhorn and Dom. “You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest.
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