But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. “Yes. “Have you ever been to the opera, Ann Veronica?” said Ramage. “He’s got almost to like it. I don’t know if I express myself clearly. ‘Is it such a terrible prospect? I will take care of you—as long as you obey me. Such a mystery as you have set up. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. .
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