He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. The features were indistinct, but was that not a halo of white about it? And the dark shadow below, was that a cloak, or the habit of a nun? Skirting the dancing, from which he had taken a breather—not from lack of energy, but to escape the inanities of the young ladies he had partnered—Gerald made his way to a side door in the saloon and opened it. “I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ‘Well?’ she said. “I wish I didn’t swear. She glanced into his face. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her.
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