“No, it was simple. He got off on it. 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. She had no intention whatsoever of spending her life in a convent, but that was not his affair. The door opened. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. ’ He looked the girl up and down. “Why could you not confide in us?” “Do what?” said Ann Veronica. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. ‘I dare say the best plan will be for me to bring her to see you, after all. The mummies were tossed into the collection.
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