She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom. 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. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. The pistol, it was not loaded. She came into the room. There is something in prayer; not that there may be any noticeable result, any definite answer; but no human being can offer an honest prayer to God without gaining immeasurably in courage, in fortitude, in resignation, and that alone is worth the effort. Even in the daylight, it had a sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining houses, as if afraid of their society. Of course, why not? She would be honest, anyhow! She turned her eyes to Manning. Instantly she seized the poker and made a desperate effort to get them out again. It was not in evidence here, not a sign of it.
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