As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. Until two hours ago she was as contented and as happy as a linnet. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. ” Chapter XIX “THIS IS NOT THE END” “I said some afternoon,” she remarked, throwing open her warm coat, and taking off her gloves, “but I certainly did not mean to-day. Grandmothers and grandfathers and uncles and aunts … to love and to coddle lonely little girls. After a while one began to talk. ‘She’s still bleeding.
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