Miss Stanley had determined from the outset to have the warmest affection for her youngest niece and to be a second mother in her life—a second and a better one; but she had found much to battle with, and there was much in herself that Ann Veronica failed to understand. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. “The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. Sheppard," said Wood, glancing round the chamber, as he expanded his palms before the scanty flame. Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. You might tell the truth to some men, but never to him.
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