Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. ‘I don’t know that I dare. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. Ann Veronica was apologetic to the bottom of her soul. Mr Jarvis’s sister, that was. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. As soon, however, as the last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of his affliction.
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