Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. So long as she stood beside him, he was safe. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. They used the rope—not that a rope was at all necessary, but because Ann Veronica’s exalted state of mind made the fact of the rope agreeably symbolical; and, anyhow, it did insure a joint death in the event of some remotely possibly mischance. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin.
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