Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. “There,” he said, “you don’t treat me fairly, Miss Stanley. After all, this could never be the black sheep. She accomplished it with the aid of the young fellow’s hand, and stepped down into the road, glancing up at the house as she did so. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack between the door and the frame. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No. "So, you young fool, I have found you!" she said, harshly.
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