Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt. Neither father, aunt, nor brothers made a sign, and then one afternoon in early February her aunt came up in a state between expostulation and dignified resentment, but obviously very anxious for Ann Veronica’s welfare. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. “I’ve been,” she said, “forbidden to come. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse.
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