She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. ‘Oh, mon dieu. ” “Any place would be beautiful,” said Ann Veronica, in a low voice. Somebody to depend upon her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little while. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair.
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