” “Ay,” he repeated, looking away from her. ‘Quite mad, nuns are. That is what I don't understand. That's well. He tried to make love to me. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. Neither father, aunt, nor brothers made a sign, and then one afternoon in early February her aunt came up in a state between expostulation and dignified resentment, but obviously very anxious for Ann Veronica’s welfare. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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