At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. ” The two women shook hands. “Yes. Her cheeks flushed a dull red. “My dear child,” he said, “with me you need have no apprehension. But I know a little place where we’ll get a little quiet talk. Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. ‘Hates doing the pretty.
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