“Come upstairs,” she said, “and I will show you your room. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. Your fingers are even now as stiff as a schoolgirl’s. Some one had once, in his hearing, called him a prig. “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. He waved to her. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. “Really, I do not know why I should have doubted it. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. Anna turned deliberately away from the bedside.
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