They made a stratum into which Ann Veronica was now plunged up to her neck; it had become her stratum. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. ’ It took several frustrating moments, working at the protrusions of the carving down the side of the bookshelves, tugging at leaves, pushing at flowers. Ann Veronica stared for a moment in amazement at this dark-green object that clashed as it was put down. She ran away after she had divined that Gianfrancesco had remarried. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully.
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