“We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. “The very question, my dear sister,” she said, “tells me that I have succeeded. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. Covering his face with a crape mask, and taking the candle from his associate, Jack entered the room; and, pistol in hand, stepped up to the bed, and approached the light to the eyes of the sleepers. ‘And how is it that you have acquired this garb of a religieuse?’ he asked as she fitted the veil over her head. 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 prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance.
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