Marvel, in a tone intended to be consolatory. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. From then until four in the afternoon there was nothing to do—the whole island went to sleep. “What made you marry him? What made you leave Paris without a word to any one? What made you and your sister exchange identities?” “There is one answer to all those questions, Nigel,” she said, with a nervous little shudder. They were terrible, horrible people.
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