The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. “I suppose there’s no way of getting a decent income—independently. Ann Veronica ignored her friend’s confusion. Instinctively she had fallen into the posture of the poster, her hands behind her, her head bent slightly forward, her chin uplifted, her eyes bright with the drollery of the song. The proa bore away to the northwest out of which it had come. There was a time, long, long ago, when the tears would have rushed to my eyes unbidden at the bare mention of generosity like yours, Mr.
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