“I think,” she said, “that I would rather not have anything to say about that man. I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands. He stopped abruptly. “No, I must have had hope lurking somewhere too. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings.
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