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In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. ” He made his voice very low and full, and looked closely into her face. He was smiling under his heavy mustache, and his head was a little on one side as he looked at her. He knocked on the doorframe. There was a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. ‘But you will not be in a convent. I love some one else. I pity her from the bottom of my heart. I want you to understand clearly that I was indebted to the man in many small ways. I was the last on board. The other individual, who was a little in advance, was concealed from the stranger's view. How did you meet him?’ ‘He was wounded and came to the convent for sanctuary,’ Melusine told him, stung by his criticism into revealing more than she had intended.
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