Ann Veronica was excited and puzzled, with a sense of a strange and disconcerting new light breaking over her relations with Ramage. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. Ann Veronica forgot him as soon as she was through the gate, and her face resumed its expression of stern preoccupation. ‘You will not guess again?’ ‘No, no, I am quite out of ideas. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew. I'm going through his pockets. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue.
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