"Her blood be upon her own head, then," replied Rowland, sternly. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. A pretty piece. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. But Ann Veronica had still to get to her chief topic. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly.
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