“My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. He talked at the blackboard in a pleasant, very slightly lisping voice with a curious spontaneity, and was sometimes very clumsy in his exposition, and sometimes very vivid. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. There was a very substantial profit in the transaction, for he paid the natives in commodities—coloured cotton cloths, pipes and tobacco, guns and ammunition, household utensils, cutlery and glass gewgaws. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered.
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