She was not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her. Her aunt had secretly sent on to Ann Veronica some new warm underclothing, a dozen pairs of stockings, and her last winter’s jacket, but the dear lady had overlooked those boots. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. The times were such that, with the opinions he entertained, he could not remain idle. His thoughts, indeed, were too painful for utterance, and so acute were his feelings, that, for some time, they quite overcame him. She had found that proof.
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