Lucy followed her. Her lips parted, but no words came. Upon my word, Anna,” she declared, with a strange little laugh, “you are a thousand times more like me as I was two months ago than I am myself. Wood could stand it no longer. Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle. They stopped talking, except to each other. Then she and her husband went off to a Yorkshire practice, and had four more babies, none of whom photographed well, and so she passed beyond the sphere of Ann Veronica’s sympathies altogether. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun.
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