‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. “No you don’t!” said Ann Veronica, and walked out at a brisk and businesslike pace toward the house. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life. When I am angry, I can get very mean. ’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic.
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