“Your mother was a Gypsy. I call myself a man of the world, a man of many experiences, but I never knew what love meant—until I met your sister. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. Ann Veronica felt no repulsion at the prospect. ‘Certainly I have them with me. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive.
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